Legacy of the Frozen Throne
by Dimas
Summary: Alternate Universe. The battle for the Frozen Throne ended with Illidan Stormrage emerging the victor. While the Demon Hunter was enjoying his hour of triumph, the flows of Time itself were destined to change... Epilogue added.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Warcraft

CHAPTER 1

Silently he stood in front of the shattered Frozen Throne in the cold chambers of the Icecrown, the helmet of the Lich King, Ner'Zhul, lying before his feet. The only thing left to do was to destroy that helmet, and he, Illidan Stormrage, would get what he had been promised by the fiery lord Kil'Jaeden. Nobody could stop him from completing this: Malfurion had returned to Ashenvale, Maeiv Shadowsong was searching for him in Outland, and Arthas lay defeated at the foundations of the Icecrown.

Illidan remembered his battle with Arthas, remembered the cursed blade the Death Knight threw at him. A little less luck and he would not have been standing at the Frozen Throne. But the Death Knight missed, and that gave the Demon Hunter a chance to reach his enemy...and the armor did not save the prince; he was now lying in a puddle of his own blood. Fool, he should have known better.

His thoughts returned to the icy spire. Time to finish what had been started. He leaned to pick up the helmet. He did not even touch it yet but the half-demon already felt a sensation, familiar but more piercing, run though every fiber of his being. The Lich King's crown hid in itself power that dwarfed even that of the Skull of Gul'Dan. The spiked helm held great power, and great power was his great weakness.

He picked it up.

"I feel great power in you," whispered Illidan, as if he spoke to an invisible companion, his face turned to the helmet, "It would be a sin to destroy such a powerful artifact."

The dark chambers of Icecrown did not answer back.

A grin appeared on his face—he knew what needed to be done.

"I will destroy this helmet," started Illidan, almost instructing himself, "But first I will drain its power."

He could not know how Kil'Jaeden would react to his decision, but in this moment he did not care—he had journeyed a path that had led him from the darkness of his prison to the white-grey landscapes of Northrend. He had prevailed over the Scourge, a feat nobody else in the known world had done! He deserved the Lich King's power, and was rightfully his by the eternal right that was already ancient even before his birth—the right of conquest! And it would be his…

Triumph for one meant shame and defeat for another. Arthas lay on the snows now colored by his own blood, surrounded by Blood Elves and Naga, his armor cracked, his stomach speared by his foe's weapon. Bleeding and dizzy, he was forced to listen to the jibes his enemies were throwing at him.

''Why can't we just finish him off?" asked one of the Naga.

''Because Lord Illidan said so,'' replied a familiar voice. Kael's voice.

''You're…enjoying this,'' breathing deeply, the Death Knight turned to his old rival, ''You're…enjoying…my misery, Kael'Thas.''

''Misery for misery, Arthas,'' sounded the chilly voice of the Elf Prince; its owner took a step closer to the defeated Death Knight. ''You have taken away everything dear to me.''

''Then kill me!''

''I really want to, but, alas, I don't have the permission.''

Arthas closed his eyes; did not want to see the Blood Mage. No, not in such a pathetic state.

''Is he still alive?" another familiar voice joined in.

Arthas opened his eyes and saw a winged figure approaching him. Illidan. Frostmourne, the blade the Death Knight once wielded, was now in the hand of the half-demon, another testimony to his victory.

''You—'' started Arthas.

''—picked up your blade, Arthas,'' Illidan smiled, "Shame to the warrior who loses his weapon on the battlefield."

''You've decided to impale me on my sword yourself?"

"Me? I have destroyed the Lich King, and the forces you led in battle against the Illidari now obey only me! Do you really think I will waste my time killing you?'' his voice was stained with the notes of a strange, sinister joy.

The astonished Blood Elves and looked at their leader; the Naga displayed no reaction as if the news were not related to them in any way.

''So what will you do to me?" Arthas did not care; he only wanted all of this to end.

''It would be interesting to see you being torn apart by ghouls...but your fate will be different.''

''And what is my fate?''

But his question was ignored.

''Heal his wound!'' Illidan addressed the Blood Elf priest, who was standing next to Kael'Thas.

''But, Milord...''the Elf Prince raised an eyebrow. _Is this some joke?_ he thought.

''I know what I am doing, Prince Kael,'' Illidan turned his face to his minion.

Reluctantly, the priest followed the order. Soon the wound was healed, but for some unknown reason pain and dizziness did not leave the Death Knight. He could not even stand up.

''Here! Take your toy!'' Illidan sunk Frostmourne into the snow next to Arthas. ''I don't want to stain my hour of triumph with something as unworthy as you blood. Instead, I have come up with a different punishment for you…" The Demon Hunter smirked wickedly, "I will create a portal that will teleport you to a random location,'' with those words Illidan raised his hand.

"Now what was that you told be just before the start of our duel? To leave and never return?" the half-demon proclaimed with a poisonous intonation. "Well, you are the one who will have to leave!"

That moment a pink portal opened under the death knight and swallowed him along with the sword within a second.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

He approached the throne, and the gloved hand grabbed his father by the shoulder. Father's eyes met with his. Fear and confusion were what the Death Knight could read in the king's orbs.

"What are you doing, my son?" asked Terenas, his voice trembling.

"Succeeding you, father," sounded the reply.

Accompanying those words, the cursed runeblade Frostmourne speared the king's chest.

At the same moment the prince's eyes opened. He was lying on his back under a tall pine in a dark, dense forest.

''Father! No!'' he cried.

He sat up and buried his face in his hands, tears coming from his eyes. A tear fell on the gloves' brown fabric, soon joined by more. He cried for his father, Uther, Antonidas, and countless other lives he had taken away. He cried for the ruined lives of Kael'Thas Sunstrider, the Blood Elves and refugees from Lordaeron. He cried for the fates of Sylvanas Windrunner and the Forsaken. Now he began to feel guilt and remorse over his actions. He cried for the destroyed Lordaeron and Quel'Talas. He cursed himself, he cursed the day of his birth, he cursed his fate. He wished he could have died in Northrend or during the siege of Heathglen, in Sylvanas' ambush or in the fight with Illidan. Now he began to feel those delayed emotions. But why only now? Why not earlier? He did not feel it for his deeds only several days before— but why did he feel them now? How did he become the Lich King's minion? Suddenly he remembered his conversation with the Dreadlord Tichondrius. The Nathrezim had said that Frostmourne had the ability to consume mortal souls and that the Paladin's soul was the first one consumed.

The former Prince raised his head and noticed that this forest seemed familiar to him: Illidan's portal had brought him to Ashenvale. A lock of golden hair fell on his wet face, astonishing him. His grey hair had become golden again.

"Now I understand," Arthas realized. _Frostmourne stole my soul, twisting me as a result. That's why I served the Lich King. Now with his ultimate demise, I am somehow reunited with my soul._

He remembered Illidan returning the sword. And, turning his head to the right, he saw the sword lying next to him on the grass. He picked up what was truly Death's instrument. The former Prince did not feel the blade's power, did not hear its whispers. Even the blue flames that once poured from the "eyes" of the nightmarish muzzle decoration had gone out. It was just a fancy sword now. But that sword still had use to him…Arthas brought the sharp blade to his throat. There was no future for him in a world where he could only be despised by everybody.

"You have claimed so many lives," Arthas whispered to the sword, "so claim one more!'"

He was about to sink the blade in his throat when a crow landed in a few meters in front of him. A mysterious green light suddenly consumed the bird, growing, catching Arthas' attention. A moment later a familiar man in a brown cloak appeared in the crow's place, holding a staff in his hand. The former Prince put the sword back in the scabbard and stood up. He could commit suicide later. He needed to talk to him, a shadow from his past.

"Greetings, Prince Arthas," the former prince heard a calm voice.

"You're that Prophet!" said Arthas.

"Yes, I was afraid you would try something like that," he pointed his staff at Frostmourne.

"Just another sin in a long chain," Arthas said coldly, "And you are to blame for all of it!" he barked.

"You did not listen to my warnings, Prince. It is not my fault."

"You've seen all of this, so why didn't you tell everybody about the destruction of Lordaeron? Why didn't you tell about my fall from grace? Why didn't you tell about the coming of the Burning Legion?"

"You think they would have listened," responded the Prophet, "Think about it."

"You're probably right.'' Arthas admitted. The Prophet had a point.

"I didn't come here to humiliate you, boy," continued the Prophet, "Years ago, under the influence of the Dark Titan Sargeras, I opened the Dark Portal and allowed the Orcs to invade this world…"

He had gone through much, but the Prince still remembered his history lessons.

"You're Medivh, the last Guardian," realized Arthas, the realization amazing him.

"Yes, I am, Arthas. And one can say that our fates are quite similar,"

Arthas bowed his head, something within him made him feel sorry for the old man. Joked by fate itself, they both had been puppets of evil lords.

"So why did you come here?" asked Arthas.

"Ner'Zhul is destroyed, and Illidan is the new Lich King. The half-demon is the most powerful being in the world, but I am afraid that he might have lost the remnants of his sanity."

"If he is so powerful, why am I reunited with my soul?"

"Ner'Zhul made that sword what it was; HE was Frostmourne's source of power, not Illidan. Now with Ner'Zhul's demise the sword's power is no more. It will not consume another soul."

"Now I understand," said Arthas. "What do you want?"

"I need your help."

"You're asking me for help?"

"Indeed. I do not know what will happen next. I did not foresee Illidan's victory. Understanding how unpredictable he is, we must be ready for the worst."

"Why can't I be left alone!" snapped Arthas, "I'm tired of this!"

"You don't want to redeem yourself?"

"An eternity will not be enough."

"And what about the safety of your people?"

Arthas thought he felt as if a familiar voice from the past called out to him. He looked at the green grass bellow. Long ago the well-being of his people was his main concern; it was the time to return to his old ways.

"I will help you," said Arthas, "for the well-being of my people," he added in a few moments.

"Excellent! I will find Malfurion. The druid must know about his brother's fate."

"And my task is?" asked Arthas.

"Let me tell you."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

The pain Arthas felt at the foundations of the Icecrown became familiar to Kel'Thuzad too. It had found him in the dark chambers of his necropolis. In the moment of Ner'zhul's demise the Lich thought he was about to break into pieces. His powers left him, pain and dizziness replacing them. He was so weak that he could not even move. But the Lich was not a fool—he began to understand the reason of this anomaly.

''The Lich King is gone...and my powers died with him.'' he came to a conclusion. All this years wasted and such a pathetic result.

Was this the end of the Scourge or the dawn of a new Lich King? That was his last thought before loosing consciousness.

He remained in this condition for hours.

''Lich,'' Kel'Thuzad heard a voice before regaining consciousness.

The Lich saw a male Night Elf in a few meters from him. But he knew how Night Elves were supposed look...and this one did not look like an ordinary Night Elf. His eyes were hidden beneath a black cloth. The horns on his head and the big wings on his back gave hints that the stranger had demonic beginnings in him.

''He is probably blind.'' thought Kel'Thuzad, looking at the headband.

''Who are you?" asked the Lich.

''I am Illidan Stormrage, the Lord of Outhland, the one who defeated Arthas.'' sounded a reply.

So this was how everything was destined to end? Yet the Lich failed to understand one thing…

''Why did you come here?'' asked Kel'Thuzad.

''Why did I come here? Watch your words, Lich!'' laughed Illidan, ''Your fate is in my hands, and my will is your future. I am the new leader of the Scourge, this is my realm now. The old Lich King is destroyed." He looked at the Undead and wondered whether the mighty Kel'Thuzad was mourning his old master.

"Do not concern yourself with Ner'zhul, Lich. I am your master now." He spoke. "I am the new Lich King!"

Kel'Thuzad did not want to believe that Night Elf was now the bearer of this, yet he could feel the Lich King's power flowing through his veins. He was telling the truth.

There was no reply. Was the Lich really mourning his beloved leader? Illidan could not know for sure.

''But I am offering you to join me. I need a being of your power and wisdom as my lieutenant.'' said Illidan. ''I have Ner'zhul's memories...and I know what a powerful minion you are.''

''What will happen if I join you?''

''I will restore your powers. And not just that. I can offer you a very nice place for you in the New World if you are interested. You only need to tell me where your loyalty lies?"

There was only one right answer…

"I am loyal to the Lich King. Ner'zhul WAS the Lich King, but you ARE the Lich King now," whispered Kel'Thuzad.

''What is your will, Master?" he addressed Illidan.

Illidan nodded; the skeletal sorcerer made the right choice.

''Excellent!'' said Illidan, approaching the Lich, a smile on his face.

Slowly, Illidan put his hand, strangely weightless, on Kel'Thuzad's bony shoulder, and a few moments later the Lich felt as if a stream of energy ran through the remnants of his body, infusing every bit of it. He rejoiced at the thought that his powers returning.

"There," said the new Lich King. "Your powers are restored," he removed his hand from the Lich's shoulder.

"By the way, Great One, by what means did you get…" the Lich started. In those moments he actually wondered whether he had remained without senses throughout a period of time that allowed the newcomer to cross giant distances.

"Here?" Illidan found it easy to predict the end of the sentence.

"I am not here. I still remain in Northrend. What you see before you is merely an apparition, a projection of me."

It was so obvious! How had he not guessed it!

"And I want you to join me and the other Illidari lords there within the next several weeks for a series of important meeting."

"I will be there," the Lich bowed his head-skull.

"Excellent!" Illidan said before his apparition faded into nothing.

Kel'Thuzad was once again left alone.

Quiet laughter escaped from him. He would find out what fates had befallen upon Arthas and the Crypt Lord later, but his high status was secured by an allegiance with the one named Illidan Stormrage…


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

''Where am I? How did I get here?" were her first thoughts.

She did not understand where she was, she could not see anything in the fog which surrounded her, yet she continued to walk. A few minutes later the fog turned thin and gave way to mist. Now Jaina could see landscape that surrounded her. It was hard to call the sight a pleasant one…Headstones; a valley of them.

''A cemetery.'' she thought.

Still progressing forward, she looked around, unexplainable fear filling her.

''Feels like this graveyard doesn't have an ending.''

She approached one of the graves, but could not read the inscription on it for time had wiped the name off like an ordinary stain. The nearest grave was in the same condition: old and damaged. She continued her walk. Very soon the road led her to a dark mausoleum. The grim structure, which looked even older than the surrounding graves, stood in front of her, marking the end of the road. The mist contributed to its gloomy splendor. She stopped at the mausoleum's doors.

Jaina wanted to turn around, she wanted to find an exit out of this burial ground...but something inside her persuaded the mage enter this mysterious crypt. The doors opened by themselves with a creak. The sorceress walked in, a chill running through her, making the woman shiver slightly. In the middle of this cold dark chamber she saw two coffins standing, both open, both empty. Slowly she reached the coffins, her every step echoing in the crypt's interior, and sat down next to them. The left one did not have an inscription on it, but the other...

''Daelin Proudmoore,'' she read the inscription on the coffin to her right.

Daelin Proudmoore! Her father...who was killed by the Orcs a week before. But why was his coffin here? And where was his body? Jaina stood up, astonished.

''Jaina.'' she heard an angry, but familiar voice from behind.

That voice! She turned around and saw a tall figure clad in an admiral's uniform and a green cloak, the person's face hidden under a hood.

''Father?" she asked, confused.

''What are you doing here, my girl?'' he wondered, approaching her.

''Father,'' Jaina felt tears falling on her cheeks. ''You're alive! I thought you are dead.''

Maybe he never died? Maybe his both the battle and his demise were just a bad dream?

''Jaina, I am dead.'' he pulled the hood back and revealed what had been hidden beneath it.

Jaina sighed in horror and shock...when she saw her father's decaying face, a twisted version of its former likeness.

''I am disappointed with you—my daughter must not be allied with the Horde!'' the admiral grabbed her by the throat by the throat with both his gloved hands, ''That is why I am taking you with me to the grave!''

Now she began to understand who the second coffin was meant for—it was to be her final resting place. The admiral's grip on her throat began to tighten; she screamed.

In a moment Jaina woke up in her bed in her tower on Theramore. Light was pouring through her window, indicating that morning had come. She sat up, buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

—–––—

Evening had already fallen on Ashenvale by the time Malfurion and Tyrande reached the shore of a lake near the Night Elf town of Auberdine.

''Are you sure he is coming?" asked Tyrande.

''The Prophet said he will come here,'' Furion replied.

The night before Malfurion had a dream in which the familiar Prophet told him to come to this place near the town of Auberdine. The Archdruid had told Tyrande about his vision in the morning, and the Priestess decided to go with him.

Malfurion's thoughts returned to the present.

Last time The Prophet came in the middle of the Burning Legion's invasion. But what about this time? Was the world in danger again? Did the demonic horde manage to overcome its defeat and somehow return onto the world? These thoughts troubled him.

The priestess looked in her lover's eyes and could read alarm in them.

''Furion,'' started Tyrande. ''Is something troubling you?''

''Yes, my love, I am sure the Prophet will not bring good news.''

''He is a herald of trouble. He only comes in dark times,'' snapped the Priestess.

In a few minutes a crow flew out of the forest's shadows, its form almost unnoticeable in the evening dusk. As it landed on the shore near them, its transformation into a human being, accompanied and illuminated by a greenish aura, began. A few moments later a familiar figure appeared on the crow's place.

''Greetings, leaders of the Night Elves.'' started the Prophet, ''I bring urgent news."

"We are listening," were Tyrande's words; the woman never bothered with false presentations of hospitality.

''Your brother...'' started Medivh, turning to Malfurion.

''What did he do now?" interrupted the Archdruid; one did not need to be an oracle to predict that whenever news came about his twin, the report would not be an optimistic one.

''He is the new Lich King.''

''What?" cried the Night Elves.

That phrase stunned the pair. Neither of then could believe it. Yes, Illidan's lust for power was his greatest sin. Turning into a half-demon was one of the many serious issues...but this went beyond any borders!

''How did this happen?'' asked Tyrande.

''Two days ago, at the Frozen Throne in Northrend…'' started Medivh.

He told them about the half-demon's victory over the Undead Scourge and Ner'zhul's destruction.

''Now Illidan is perhaps the most powerful being in the world.'' Medivh finished Illidan's story.

Malfurion a palm to his forehead—he simply could not understand his brother. What were the other twin's ambitions anyway? What would Illidan do next? Invade the Twisting Nether, overthrow Kil'Jaeden, and take over the Burning Legion? Try to become an Old God? Or maybe a Titan?

''Something must be done,'' the Archdruid sighed, ''I will go to Northrend.'' he suddenly decided. ''I must see my brother.''

''I'm coming with you.'' said his lover, the earlier decision surprising her.

"No, Tyrande, I will go alone; you should stay with our people.'' He said, sunk in thoughts, without even taking her words into consideration.

''I myself do not know what to expect from all of this. That is why I cannot give you any advices.'' The Prophet concluded, ''I can only wish you good luck.''

With that the Prophet once more turned into a crow and flew away in his mysterious manner, leaving—or maybe abandoning—the two Night Elves to find a solution to a problem first created by beings beyond their comprehension.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

_A month later…_

Sorrow, cold, loneliness, decay, death... the frozen continent called Northrend seemed to be a manifestation of those "things". There were no hints on hope in that damned realm of ice and blight. Nothing. Countless numbers of ghouls and abominations, crypt fiends and banshees, shades and skeletons roamed the frozen wastelands, while creatures from days long forgotten dwelled beneath. There was something not right about that place. You could even feel it in the air.

Malfurion's mind was full with thoughts,-- thoughts about his beloved Tyrande, thoughts about the future that might never come, and, finally, thoughts about his brother. Illidan... that name was sounding in the Archdruid's ears, and the half-demon's twisted image was sparkling in his mind. Illidan... 10 000 years ago they were so close to each other. But then fate came down with all it's might. From Brother, Illidan Stormrage turned into The Betrayer, from Betrayer to half-demon, and, recently, from half-demon to the Lich King, one of the most powerful entities in the world. What should be expected next? The Night Elf had no idea.

After a long journey across the Great Sea, Furion and his small group of 9 Night Elves set foot on the shore of Northrend. Six of them were Archers, brave Night Elf women whose courage and skills were famous across the world Azeroth; two Druids of the Claw, whose strength and the ability to turn into bears had made them a challenge for all the enemies of the kaldorei, and one Druid of the talon, another type of shape shifting druids that could bring a variety of problems on the heads of their rivals. All of Tyrande's advices of taking more troops and her offers of accompanying had been ignored. They were a small force, but there was no need in more troops, for the Archdruid had guessed that the Scourge would not be the main enemy on their way, especially if Illidan himself wanted to see his own brother. The main dangers were the free-roaming revenants, the Nerubian rebels, and the monstrous vertigo. 

"My brothers and sisters," he proclaimed when the process of disembarkation was complete." Now we shall venture deep into the continent. But we all should be very careful because may encounter anything during this quest. Now forward!''

And with that he turned around and started to walk in the direction of the continent's center, with the other kaldorei following him.

Several hours later they stopped to get some rest on a glade in the middle of one of Northrend's forests.

"Is everything in Northrend so grim?" Malfurion thought sadly, looking on trees around them. The old trees stood dead, their trunks and branches twisted by some unknown force, thus having a monstrous look. Was Ner'zhul's reign of death the cause of the continent's corruption? Or, maybe, something else? An Old God? A true friend and guardian of nature, Malfurion Stormrage needed to know.

" I should speak to the spirits of this place just as I did in the Eastern Kingdoms a year ago.'' he stood up," Adjara, you will take the role of my replacement while I am gone." the Archdruid addressed the Archer sitting next to him.

''Do you want some of us to accompany you, Shan'do?" asked one of the druids of the Claw.

"No. You should stay together." came the reply." If anything goes wrong, I shall summon the Treants to aid me." he added and disappeared amidst the trees.

It took him some time to find a place where he could hold the "talk". He stopped besides one of the corrupted trees, which had presumably been a pine a long time ago.

"Spirits of this place, I summon you!" he called, raising his staff.

Then, all of a sudden, four wisp-like light-blue fires came out of nowhere and encircled him. And…

While Malfurion was wandering in the woods, his group was waiting for him on the glade. The forest, though hideous, was calm, and it was not surprising because nothing dwelled in it. Or, at least, not living beings…

"What is that?" sounded the voice of one of the Archers.

Adjara, who was looking at the grey, cloudy northern sky, turned her gaze and saw a silhouette amidst the closest trees, in about a hundred meters from her. The thing's shape was familiar to her. The Archers grabbed their bows.

"Probably a Crypt fiend." replied Adjara aiming her arrow at the creature." Let's see what it wants."

But then came a surprise, for the creature that dropped in on them was not a Crypt fiend. Every Night Elf in the team had fought the undead spiders before, but the behemoth they encountered was different. Instead of looking like a giant spider, the thing seemed to be a cross between an arachnoid and a beetle, and the sharp thorns on his shell gave him an even more gruesome appearance.

"Night Elves," the creature started." I am Anub'arak, King of Azjol-Nerub and Herald of Lord Illidan. My master sends you his greetings and demands you to surrender your weapons."

"And why should we?" growled Adjara.

"Because this is his realm, woman, and he alone decides who may come armed and who may not."

The female gazed at her companions but did not get any hints on further actions from them.

"And what if we will not?"

"Then I will execute you all right here. And your Shadowmeld ability is not going to help you in the middle of the day. So what is your choice?"

"You? Execute us?" the woman chuckled." Try your best, bug. You are outnumbered."

"You have chosen your fate. Foolish woman, Lord Illidan has predicted your arrival. He had given you a choice, and you made it a moment ago. Actually, I have come prepared." and added loudly, "For Lord Illidan!"

Suddenly, pillars of snow arose to the skies, and almost two dozen Crypt fiends jumped out of their hiding holes. The Night Elves found themselves surrounded. 

"No, woman, you Night Elves are ones that are outnumbered." sounded Anub'arak's mocking voice. "Now prepare to look Death itself in the eyes."

"Go, find Shan'do." Adjara shouted to the druid of the Talon. "Why didn't I think of it earlier?" she quietly cursed herself for not contacting the Archdruid earlier.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

"Go!" Adjara repeated, annoyed.

"It will be done." came the druid's reply and in a blink of an eye the Night Elf disappeared, a raven taking his place.

Fluttering its wings, the proud bird immediately soared up in the sky. For a slight moment, the raven was suspended in the air and then flew into Malfurion's direction; to the left. But the attempt was worthless. As he reached the nearest trees behind the Crypt fiends, one of Anub'arak's minions sent a net in his trace, which, to the kaldorei team's horror, overtook him, thus breaking his ability to fly. The bird fell to the ground the next moment. Adjara did not know whether the Druid of the Talon survived after the fall. But it did not matter because one of the undead spiders separated from his "teammates" and started crawling to the spot of the bird-druid's fall, determined to finish off the job if there still was anything to finish…

"Was that your last hope?" wondered the King of Azjol-Nerub. "Or are you expecting a miracle?"

Adjara did not respond. Everything had been said by the Crypt Lord, and she knew it. There were no way six Archers and two Druids of the Claw could defeat almost two dozen Crypt fiends and their mighty leader. Only a miracle or Malfurion's return would be their salvation.

"So what are you planning to do, Night Elves? Die on the battlefield?" Anub'arak made a revolting sound which reminded laughter. "Or will you fall on your knees and start begging me to spare your worthless lives?"

After came a long pause. There were no movements and no speeches—only the wind howling. The rival groups stood silently, looking at each other. Beautiful faces of the Night Elf women were turned to the hideous living corpses. The whole situation seemed like the calm before a storm. Who would strike first? The immortal denizens of Ashenvale or the undead slaves of the Lich King?

The Night Elves did not know for how long they had been standing like that, but the time for one more battle had to come.

"Enough." The Crypt Lord's voice broke the silence. "Annihilate them! In the name of Lord Illidan!"

But before the Crypt fiends could attack, a loud roar shook the glade; the two druids had taken the shape of bears. One of them stormed in the Anub'arak's direction, ready to engage his nemesis in a one-on-one battle. Several moments later the bear's paws came down on the Nerubian King's shell.

"Elune, aid us." whispered Adjara as she sent one of her arrows into the dark eye of the first Crypt fiend.

_Something was wrong_.

Malfurion Stormrage had never encountered such a case. Instead of showing him the source of the land's corruption, the spirits were showing him random visions of the continent. But those images were accompanied by agonizing pain which the Archdruid's body became familiar with. It felt as if hundreds of daggers were cutting his soul. He could only imagine one explanation: the spirits were showing hostility towards him. Moaning in pain, he tried to interrupt that dangerous procedure…but could not. Now he, Malfurion Stormrage, the apprentice of the demigod Cenarius, was in the mercy of several maddened spirits. Powerless, he watched while visions of Northrend were flowing before his eyes. He saw the ruins of impressive underground cities, whose architecture was greater than any other he had seen before. He saw several Ice trolls, armed with axes, fighting a large, horned, white-furred humanoid animal. He saw an entire forest of crystals. He saw his comrades he had left on the glade,—to his own horror,—in the beginning of a battle with a squad of Undead. And then, the vision of the Icecrown with its Frozen Throne began appeared before him. There, open to the four winds, his brother sat motionless. Furion felt as if he was standing on the rooftop of the world, in front of the Frozen Throne.

"Brother." sounded Illidan's deep voice…

The Archdruid fell on the snow, finally (and strangely) released by the spirits. It took him some time to return to his senses and when he did, the image of his encircled group appeared in his mind. Responding quickly, Furion grabbed his staff and rushed to their aid.

The malevolent Crypt Lord seemed undefeatable. All of the shapeshifter's hits were either blocked or simply left scratches on the hard shell. Those scratches were not comparable to the wounds the druid had gotten himself. Every time the druid threw himself on the Undead general, he received new deep cuts from the thorns on the Nerubian's shell. The enemy's strikes, on the other hand, were strong and painful. And although Anub'arak's little helpers, two carrion beetles that appeared out of nowhere in the very beginning of the battle, were much weaker than their master, the druid had found their constant bites irritating. With a loud roar, the bear brought his paw on one of the beetles and crushing him, green liquid coloring the snow below him. He was weakened and bloodied in the fight. It was over; his long life was over. Then was a strong blow in the muzzle, which broke several of the shapeshifter's teeth, and the bear's body fell on its right side.

"Pathetic." said the Crypt Lord, dropping his gaze at the corpse.

The fight between the Scourge and the kaldorei did not last long; the cunning Crypt fiends proved to be stronger than the agile yet frail Archers. The glade looked as it was supposed to look after a fierce battle; the lifeless bodies were scattered across the glade, and the red blood of the Night Elves was mixing with the green "blood" of the undead spiders, turning the snows brown. Adjara, the lat surviving member of the team, dropped her bow and fell to her knees, clenching her teeth in pain and putting her hands on the wound on her stomach. She had witnessed all of her sisters being killed and, in one case, even torn apart by the enemies. But the thoughts of the number of Crypt fiends that had been slain by them brought the sense of pride for her team to her. Now she was ready to meet her demise. Or was it just the beginning of an afterlife? She hoped not…

With anger in her eyes she looked at the Crypt fiend who raised his paw, ready to stab her.

"Wait! Leave her to me!" ordered Anub'arak. A moment later the Crypt Lord towered over her.

"No one dares to call the King of Azjol-Nerub a bug!" he proclaimed and brought his paws down on Adjara's head, crushing her skull. Her lifeless body fell on the ground, and the snows of Northrend tasted her blood.

He was still looking at his defeated enemy when he heard one of his minions.

"Lord Anub'arak, what is that?!" the Crypt fiend's voice sounded surprised.

The undead spider king turned in his direction and saw four figures emerging out of the forest. Those were short treelike creatures, and their branchlike arms ended in claws. Miracles of nature…

"Tree-men?" asked another Crypt fiend as four more trees became alive in front of their eyes and charged at them. One of the Nerubians closest to the glade's borders fell, slashed by a creature's claws. A new battle was starting.

"The Archdruid's pets!" Anub'arak replied." Bring them down!" and swore as he saw a Night Elf figure in the woods.

"Accursed Scions of Darkness!" Malfurion shouted. As long as there was the slightest chance of at least one of his teammates still being alive the Archdruid was ready to fight the Scourge. And he would fight them…

He raised his left hand, preparing to summon a new bunch of Treants when something cold struck him in the back, sending him on the snows. It felt as if the muscles of his back themselves froze for a few seconds. Reacting quickly, the Shan'do managed to roll over and see the source of that phenomenon. The type of Undead he saw floating above the ground not far from him was familiar; he encountered one of them during the battle at Mount Hiyal and another one during the quest to save Tyrande in the Lordaeron a year before. Only the upper part of it's skeletal body was present,—below the waist was only a purple skirt-like cloth. Some strange hat-helmet crowned his head, and chains floated around his bony torso. A gruesome look indeed. Humans and Blood Elves knew them as Liches...

"I will not allow you to summon more Treants." The Lich spoke. "I suggest that you should give up, Archdruid. We are not interested in your demise."

"And who am I talking to?" wondered the Night Elf, standing up. How and when did it get behind him?

"I am Kel'Thuzad, leader of the Cult of the Damned and a faithful servant of your brother." The Undead said.

"Well, Kel'Thuzad." Furion said calmly." Your Undead slaughter my team…and you expect me to give up? I would prefer to die than to go through such humiliation."

"Then we shall bring you to Lord Illidan in chains!" the Lich proclaimed and shot another frost bolt. Furion moved aside, avoiding it.

The Archdruid threw his hands up, and, to Kel'Thuzad's surprise, several giant roots aroused from the ground, wrapping over the Lich.

"Your roots will not hold me for long!"

"I do not doubt it." Malfurion replied as he summoned four new Treants, which immediately rushed to clash with the weakened undead Nerubians.

"You cannot win, Archdruid. Even Nature cannot defeat Death!" The Lich freed himself.

"But death, Kel'Thuzad, is a part of Nature." The kaldorei replied, and a yellow bolt began forming in his hand. He threw it at his opponent but halfway it was met by a frost bolt, thus dissolving both. The same thing repeated again and again.

"I have underestimated you, Night Elf." the former Human admitted. "But in Northrend EVERYTHYNG is on my side! You cannot win."

But then the Lich felt something moving behind him. After turning around Kel'Thuzad saw one several trees coming to life. In an instant, one of the Treants was before him. One mighty hit sent the Lich flying pass the Archdruid and landing on the glade beside the Crypt fiends, who, with their tree-shaped foes no more, had been watching the duel between two of the most powerful spellcasters of the world.

"Clever, Stormrage, very clever!" filled with anger, the Lich rose up.

He counted his forces. He, Anub'arak, and five Crypt fiends were the remains of a squad of nineteen. Seven plus the Crypt Lord's carrion beetle,—that was the new incarnation of their group. The battles against the kaldorei and the Treants had taken most of them. But it was only temporary. Soon the fallen Crypt fiends would march under the banners of the Lich King once again.

"Take the Treants!" he ordered as soon as Furion and three of his allies setting foot on the glade. "Malfurion! Let us continue our showdown!" he addressed his antagonist.

The Lich and the Archdruid came closer to each other, minions fighting around them.

"You do not even suspect that you have already lost." the Lich made some strange gesture with his hand, and Malfurion felt as something had exploded right in front of him, and a wave of frost hit him. Shivering from cold, the Night Elf fell on his knees. He had lost control over his body.

"I call it a Frost Nova. I have been saving it for the right moment." the Lich laughed, approaching him. He slowly bent down and picked up Malfurion's fallen staff.

Then the Archdruid felt a strong blow in the back of his head. Everything went dark.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

Triumph.

Malfurion Stormrage, the most powerful druid among the Night Elves, lay before him, defeated. The battle was finally over. There were no battlecries, no sounds of flying arrows, no Treants and their wooden claws. Success! The only thing left was to deliver the unconscious druid to the needed place.

The Lich was still holding the Archdruid's staff, with which he had struck the final blow. What a fool Lord Illidan's brother is. If he had surrendered, this useless showdown would not have occurred. He should have understood that Nature is powerless before Death…

Two shadowy figures appeared out of the corrupt forest from the same direction the Crypt Lord had earlier. Both wore long dark-purple robes, hoods hiding their faces. Acolytes from the Cult of the Damned, loyal followers of the Scourge. They rest is up to them.

"Just in time," the Lich turned to them, "Tie this one next to me before he comes to his senses."

Silently, the two cultists approached them and began to follow the master's order. Kel'Thuzad flew aside.

"Lord Anub'arak, Lord Kel'Thuzad." sounded a Crypt fiend's voice not far from him. The creature was next to a fallen Archer.

"What is it?" responded the former Spider King.

"One of the Night Elves…she is still alive." The undead spider explained, and, a couple of moments later, the Crypt Lord and the Lich were beside him. The Kel'Thuzad noticed the woman turning her head; her lips parting as if she was trying to say something.

"Not a single wound on her. One of the Crypt fiends probably knocked her to the ground with his paw but for some reason failed to deliver the final blow." Anub'arak drew his conclusion. "Should we finish her off?" he looked at the Lich with his bug eyes.

"Lord Illidan did not tell us how to act in such a situation." the Lich hesitated. "Let's take her with us too, just in case. She will make a nice trophy."

And with a gesture of his bony hand he summoned the acolytes to his side.

The living dead, dozens of them: sharp-fanged, muttering ghouls; hideous abominations comprised of body parts from different corpses; arachnid Crypt fiends; skeletons…those were the first things Malfurion saw after regaining consciousness. The Archdruid immediately found himself standing on his knees, his hands tied behind his back. How? He looked to his right; there, next to him, he saw one Archer, the only surviviving member of the team. She was treated the same way. Their eyes met for a moment. Then his gaze went up. He saw the icy spire that seemed to be piercing the sky itself. It was the same one the spirits had shown him. The Icecrown. In the skies, which were grey as sorrow, he saw the silhouettes of flying dragon-like creatures, Frost wyrms. Had those creatures of cold and death served as their transport to this…this…It was definitely an undead encampment—the grim structures behind the undead were hinting on it.

"Are you alright?" Furion asked the Archer.

"Yes, and what about you?"

"The same." he said, spotting the Lich among the surrounding undead. "What are your master's plans?" he spoke to him, voice solid.

"HE is coming." was the reply.

It did not take long for the steps of something four-legged to be heard. The Undead stepped aside, making way for their supreme leader. Illidan Stormrage, the Lord of Outland and the Lich King, rode an undead steed which looked like a skeleton of a horse with, strangely, long horns. If Kel'Thuzad had had lips, he would have grinned—that mount was familiar to him. It was the same steed Arthas had rode before Illidan sentenced him to wander the four lands, damned and alone. Accompanying the new Lich King was Lady Vashj, a Naga Sea Witch, a gruesome serpentine creature with living snakes instead of hair.

"Brother," said Illidan and dismounted, "how nice to see you again."

"Unfortunately, the feeling is not mutual." replied his brother.

"But you should know that it was I who saved you from those crazed spirits earlier," a smile appeared on his face, "and I believe that you were the one who wanted to see me."

"Well, Brother…or should I call you _Lich King_?" Malfurion frowned. But the half-demon pretended to ignore the remark

"I wanted to ask you something, Illidan. How much power do you still want to get? Or is your current condition enough for you?"

"You can never have too much of it, but currently I am not seeking more. My power is almost ultimate. Blood Elves and Naga, the Broken and Fel Orcs, the Scourge—I have united them all under a single banner. And new members will join in the future. This is the beginning of a New Order."

"A New Order?" the Archdruid asked, looking at the winged figure in disbelief. "I do not remember you being interested in such things."

"My new condition, as you call it, makes me think of creating it. That is a rule of the universe. Who knows, maybe one day even the kaldorei will serve me…"

"Crazy." Malfurion heard the muttering of the female Archer before he could reply himself. But he wasn't the only one to hear it…

"What did you say?!" the Lord of Outland raised his voice. "Pull her up!" he gave a command.

Following his order, two skeletons grabbed the woman by the shoulders and pulled her up.

"What did you want to tell me?" he made a step closer to her, this time his voice calmer.

"No matter how powerful you are, the kaldorei will never stand at your side, Betrayer." She gave him a burning glance.

"Your tongue is quite sharp." he grinned. "Kel'Thuzad!"

"Yes, Master." The Lich floated to him.

"Punish her." He said and moved in order to give his servant more space.

And then a skeletal arm went through the Archer's chest and immediately pulled out. Malfurion watched in shock as the Lich stood holding the Night Elf's hearth in his hand; blood dripping on the snow. Disgust filled the Archdruid. He could not find the right words to describe such brutality. The skeletons let loose of the body, and it fell on the ground.

"Now you all will witness the power of the Lich King!" proclaimed Illidan. He stepped to the woman's corpse and bent down, touching her forehead with the tip of his claw.

For a moment there was only silence. But it ended when the lifeless body opened its mouth and started to scream as if the woman was horribly tortured. Her eyes grew wide as her soul began leaving the body. The screaming stopped, and everybody saw a ghost-like female figure floating just above the corpse. A banshee.

"Who do you serve?" asked Kel'Thuzad, throwing the hearth against the ground.

"Lord Illidan…" the banshee turned to her new master.

"Excellent!" cheered the second Lich King.

"And what is my fate, Illidan?" Malfurion finally spoke after witnessing the brutality. "Are you going to murder me in cold blood and resurrect as your undead slave?"

"Of course not, brother." said Illidan. "I am not a brutal savage, and you are my guest."


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

_While Malfurion Stormrage was crossing the Great Sea…_

The Barrens. It was not hard to guess why such a name had been given to the region. This zone consisted of vast plains burned by sun rays. The land was mostly flat, yet tall mountains could be seen in the distance. The Barrens presented many dangers: warbands of aggressive, savage centaurs roamed the savannah, ready to attack any traveler or caravan that they would see; raiding parties of the quilboars, humanoid pigs, who would fiercely defend their precious lands from potential invaders; the harpies, vile winged women...

The dark armor on his back made the travel through the wasteland at daylight, when the heat was at it's peak, impossible. That is why the former Death Knight preferred to move at night, when it was cooler, spending daytime under the shades of trees scattered accross the Barrens. But preferences are only preferences. Although the flora could provide salvation from the terrible heat, it would not offer shelter from the dreaded creatures of the dry lands, and he really wanted—no, desired—to reach his destination as soon as possible and finally end this journey. So he was not above travelling at day...as he was doing now. Luckily, he still had some of the gold he and Anub'arak had found during their trip through Azjol-Nerub. Without it he would have fallen in the middle of the flat land. It was not enough to afford a flight on a Goblin zeppelin, but at least he had been able to buy water and some food from a Goblin trader...at a price twice as higher than the usual one. Stupid Goblins. Why can't they play by the rules?

He felt the merciless heat but continued to walk. Exhausted, filthy, sweaty—would somebody recognise the once proud Crown Prince of Lordaeron in this pathetic mortal? Who was he now? Arthas could not find the answer himself. A Paladin? No, the Light had forsaken him. A Death Knight? He hoped not. A Prince? He was the only son of his deceased father. The King of Lordaeron? Doubtful; Lordaeron did not exist anymore. He, Arthas Menethil, was nothing. Oh wait, he was something—something that should have never existed. How many lives had he ruined? How many people had he killed? Now he began to understand why Illidan spared his life at the Icecrown on that fateful day: the life he had now was far worse than death. Nobody would ever forgive him for his crimes against the Humans and High Elves. There would always be people who would be happy to send him to his death. And not just people. What horrible future was Sylvanas Windrunner planning for him? No matter what he would do, he was destined to wander the world like a lost soul, damned and despised. It were times like this when he was ready to take Frostmourne in his hands and impale himself on the runeblade. His fingers tightened over the sword's hilt.

"No!" he pulled his hand away and shook his head, trying to free his mind from such thoughts. He could commit suicide some other day but now one thing was needed to be done. But what if…

Arthas stopped. The memory of his last conversation with the Prophet emerged from the deeps of his mind.

"_You want me to—what?" he could not believe __his ears; he did not want to hear more._

"_I understand that this might seem strange to you…" Medivh tried to add but was interrupted again._

"_You want me to cross the Barrens and give myself up to the Horde?!" the young man snapped. "What good will THAT bring?"_

"_I did not tell you to give yourself up. You are going there as my emissary."_

"_But what does the Horde have to do with Illidan?"_

"_Absolutely nothing. But you need to stay somewhere for a while."_

"_Among Orcs?" that was too much for him._

"_Arthas, can you suggest an alternative?"_

"_I would prefer to __stay in this forest and be torn apart by wolves." _

"_I thought you have__ agreed to help me…"_

"_Yes, I did." Arthas admitted. "But it's hard to help a person whose plans you do not understand."_

"_First of all, you will tell the Orcs I sent you and ask for an audience with Thrall, their benevolent Warchief. I will contact you again when the right time comes. These are strange times, and you will be needed in the future."_

"_And what if they decide to kill me?" he asked. Although he himself had not done anything to the new Horde, it was still possible that the Orcs were aware of his "adventures"._

"_Believe me, Arthas, they will not." The Prophet assured. "You will not die by their hands."_

But what if it was just a lie? What if Medivh had simply sent him to find death in the Barrens? Did he, Arthas Menethil, still have some importance in this radically changed world? Or, maybe, the Prophet wanted him to perish in the dry wastelands without committing suicide, thus moving into the afterlife with one sin less? And if his task was that was that important, why couldn't Medivh, a former Guardian of Tirisfal, simply teleport him to the needed place instead of sending on a hard and perilous journey? There were more questions than answers. Something was not right…

"No, I must not give up." Arthas shook his head again, proceeding. He could not afford to make another mistake. The world was still suffering from the consequences of his previous one.

Some time later, he stumbled upon an oasis, a rare thing for the Barrens, immediately hiding in the shades of the tropical flora. Luckily, oases had always been known as the main source of potable water in the region, and a spring was quickly found. Tormented by thirst and dry as a desert, the Human fell on his knees before the waters. One second later, his brown gloves fell on the ground. Some time had passed before the thirst finally retreated. Refreshed, he accommodated himself under one of the nearby palms, ready to finally get a bit of rest after a long walk. He was extremely tired and, unwillingly, drifted to sleep.

Loud sounds made him open his eyes. He found himself being dressed in rags and transported in a giant cage through the streets of the Capital of Lordaeron. But the city did not look as it was supposed to look. Instead of grim, lifeless ruins stood luxurious houses made of white stone where the nobles and wealthy merchants lived. The city's streets were filled with living people, not undead creatures. It seemed as if the old days had returned from their graves and were there to stay. The Kingdom of Lordaeron had risen from the ashes and was again in all its glory. Dark times had been vanquished, and Lordaeron, his homeland, was back. The bright sun above and the fresh air gave the feeling that a new era was starting. A new era was beginning—an era of peace and prosperity. An era when both the Scourge and other factions of Undead had no place.

Arthas, his wrists tied, sat up on his tiptoes and leant his forehead against one of the metallic bars. He was glad to see his people well again, but the feeling was not mutual. The people, his people, were sending him angry shouts, insults, and curses. Their words were tearing Arthas' hearth apart. He knew that they had a reason to hate him but he wanted—needed—to tell them how sorry he was.

"People of Lordaeron!" he proclaimed, hoping that his voice would not be lost amidst the noises.

But his words were heard; rotten eggs and tomatoes, impersonating a reply, flew at the former Death Knight. None, however, reached its aim. Several minutes after, Arthas began to see what was supposed to be the final destination. There, on the square of the capital, a wooden structure had been built—a scaffold. On it were two upright beams, joined by a horisontal crossbeam to which a rope noose was attached. It was waiting. The gallows was waiting for _him_. As soon as the mules that had been pulling the cage stopped, the cell door opened, and a footman, clad in shiny armor and holding a sword in his hand, walked in.

"To your feet, scum!" he demanded, his voice as solid as his armor.

Having no other choice, Arthas obeyed. The footman led him out; three more guards were waiting for them outside. Breathing heavily, the former Crown Prince, accompanyed by the guards, slowly ascended the steps of the scaffold. The square was crowded. Hundreds of people, as he supposed, had gathered to withness the last moments of the life of their once adored Arthas Menethil. Most of those people were shouting different things, but their words, drowning in a great symphony of sounds, did not reach him. He stared at the crowd and recognised a number its "members". He saw Gavinrad the Dire, Ballador the Bright, Mograine, and several other Knights of the Silver Hand amidst unfamiliar faces. The knight Lord Garithos stood not far them, engaged in a talk with some woman; he was probably telling her about his fictional victories over the Horde during the Second War. It did not take him long to recognise Sylvanas Windrunner, who had somehow regained her old appearance. The old man beside Prince Kael'Thas Sunstrider was definately the Archmage Antonidas. Muradin Bronzebeard, Arthas' old friend, stood in the first line of people. It seemed that Fate itself gathered the living and brought back the dead that day, so they all could see the demise of the man who had brought them harm or misery.

The young man heard loud footsteps behind him. Turning around, he saw another familiar figure walking up the wooden steps. The man was tall, his posture being proud. Although his long, dense brown beard and hair mostly retained its color, grey locks could be seen. The crest of Lordaeron was on his breastplate. He held a warhammer, the traditional weapon of the Order of the Silver Hand, in his hand. For a moment, his icy eyes met with Arthas'.

"Uther…" the former Prince whispered.

The great Paladin raised his mallet up and immediately lowered him; the crowd went silent.

"Arthas Menethil, for all your crimes against the Alliance you are sentenced to death by hanging!" Uther proclaimed. "After, your head will be separated from your body and impaled on a pike in front of the city gates, the rest of the corpse burned, and the ashes scattered." He turned to the crowd. "Let this serve a lesson for all future murderers and betrayers!"

His words were met with applause. Uther raised his warhammer again.

"Arthas," he turned to his former apprentice, "you are allowed to give your last statement."

"No final words! Just hang that Scourge lapdog!" Arthas heard a voice coming from the square as the guards were putting the rope noose on his shoulders. A few moments later the trapdoor beneath him would open…

"People of Lordaeron!" he started. "I…"

"You killed my husband!" a middle-aged woman shouted, hysterical.

"And our daddy!" cried a girl who stood beside a little boy, probably her brother.

"He deserves a fate much worse! Burn him alive! " was another voice.

"I'm sorry!" he shouted as loud as he could. Then silence came—nobody had expected such words to be said.

"Enough with your lies!" some old townsman interrupted the calm, and the square sank in angry shouts yet again.

The young man looked at his old mentor with sad eyes. The mighty Paladin approached him.

"You believe me, Uther, don't you?"

"I wish I could, Arthas," said Uther, avoiding his gaze, "but I do not."

"I was afraid so." Arthas sighed. He looked at the crowd once again and then at the sky.

"Forgive me, Father…"

"Proceed with the execution." Uther ordered.

That is when Arthas woke up. But what he saw immediately after almost made him believe that the dream was not over yet. A creature that had the lower body of a horse, the torso of a human, and ears of an Elf walked out of the grove. A centaur. He was holding an axe in his hand, and his head was crowned by a simple helmet. By the vicious look on his bearded face one could be sure that the hybrid would attack.

Releasing an irritable scream, the creature charged. Reacting quickly, the Human rose to his feet and jumped aside, barely avoiding the blade of the axe. He withdrew Frostmourne. Several moments later, the sound of clashing metal came as the runeblade met the axe. The centaur tried to deliver another blow, but the result was the same. Then the opponents receded from each other, both waiting for the rival to strike. Arthas attacked, and the creature's crude weapon stopped the sword from reaching its aim. The duel continued. The centaur had proven himself to be a tough adversary for the weakened and still tired King of Lordaeron. A different tactic was needed in order to defeat the beast.

Arthas ducked just in time to save his own head, and it gave him the chance for the fatal strike. Frostmourne cut the creep's front legs in two. The centaur screamed again—this time from pain—and fell, dropping his weapon. The human, on the other hand, stood up and threw a looked at his defeated enemy. He gazed in the beast's eyes—and saw nothing except hatred and lust for blood in them. That look made him feel that there was something similar between them; he, Arthas Menethil, had been something as malevolent as the creature next to him. The runeblade flashed in the air and separated the centaur's head from the body; Frostmourne claimed another life. The showdown was over.

He turned his back to the headless corpse and started to walk. But just as he left the shades of the oasis, he saw a group of wolf riders heading his way, their original destination being the spring's waters.

"Put your weapons on the ground and don't move, whoever you are!" one of the Orcs demanded in Common.

"Seems like my journey ends." Arthas thought, putting the sword on the ground and raising his hands. "What now?"

Only time would tell…


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

But Arthas' dream was only a dream, for the Kingdom of Lordaeron had not risen from its ashes in the real world. The once mighty kingdom continued to be a chaotic portion of land, a battlefield, where the few remaining Human survivors, the Scourge, and the Forsaken fought for control, and none of the sides knew who would be the victor. But only several months before, the situation was different—the Scourge was the leading force, having no serious rivals. And then the Scourge sank in a civil war. The Forsaken, one of the opposing factions, quickly took over the ruined Capital, allegedly destroying the Burning Legion loyalist Balnazzar, and drove the Lich King-aligned Undead out of Tirisfal Glades.

The remnants of the Lich King's forces in that region were now an easy target for Sylvanas' minions, who had been hunting them down and eradicating since the changes in the power balance in the former nation. The hunters had become the prey, and the only way to escape demise for a second time was to flee to the neighboring Western Plaguelands, still under the iron rule of the Scourge warlords.

"Acolyte," sounded the necromancer's dry voice, "when are we going to reach our destination?"

"Soon, very soon. We will be in the Western Plaguelands in a couple of hours," replied the acolyte, his face hidden under the purple hood.

"Finally. I am tired of looking left and right and having a feeling that those cursed rebels are waiting to ambush us." the dark sorcerer added.

The cultist only nodded in agreement. Several days before, their base, perhaps even the last outpost of the Scourge in Tirisfal Glades, was assaulted and completely destroyed by the Forsaken; only several survived and managed to flee. Now they were walking down one of the roads that had been laid during the reign of King Terenas. The acolyte threw a look at the other members of the "company". Calling them a small bunch would have been an exaggeration: he himself, the acolyte, a ghoul and an abomination, an ogre-like undead creature sawn from parts of different corpses, a monstrosity that could scare any living being…except the living in servitude of the Undead.

The day was gloomy—it had been gloomy in that region ever since the coming of the blight. Everything was silent, and the only sounds were the sounds of the footsteps of the terrifying Undead. Their path eventually led them up one of the wooded hills, where they would encounter somebody unexpected…

The necromancer could have mistaken her for the Banshee Queen—the pair of eyes like two drops of blood on an ash-grey face, the hood that covered her head, and the unmistakably Elf structure. However, this one was taller, and even her full armor—something the rebel leader never wore— could not put out the leanness of her body. She stood in the shadows of a tree, a banshee silently floating by her side.

"What are you doing here accompanied by only a banshee? Your foolishness is at its peak," the master of necromancy added.

"There is no need in senseless words, necromancer. I am a ranger; I and my companion are simply scouting the area, searching for Scourge troops to hunt down." a smile, both mysterious and bewitching, spread across her face. "And it seems that you are today's game."

"If you strike us down, we will go down with the Lich King's name on our lips." The acolyte backed the spellcaster in a display of zealotry.

The statement almost made the Ranger chuckle.

"You acolytes are so amusing in your fanaticism," she confessed, her eyes flashing red.

She raised her bow slightly, and the accompanying banshee made her move. Neither the cultist nor the scholar of necromantic magic was able to hinder her path, and, in a blink of an eye, the abomination turned into another of the Dark Lady's servants. Whether a mindless undead being like the abomination could have ever had a real allegiance to the Scourge mattered not. It was now a device to for the slaughter of its past companions. Immediately, the creature set out to carry out the task bestowed by the entity that now dwelt in it, and the ghoul next to it literally lost the ground beneath their feet, grabbed by its throat and shoulder by a pair of strong hands. The creature made a surprised howl. A second later, the ogre-like being threw the hunched freak against the ground with all its might, and the sound of cracking bones came. Then it was the necromancer's turn. With roar not familiar to any woodland beast, the monster swung its heavy axe. The bolt the sorcerer cast before being split almost in half made little harm to it.

A strange feeling began to boil in the acolyte; a feeling that death had finally spread its wings over him. The cultist fell on his knees, waiting to meet his destiny. And his destiny reached him—an arrow with black fletching pierced his chest. He made no sounds or whispers as he fell to the ground.

The Dark Ranger looked at the abomination finishing off the ghoul by crushing his skull with its foot. But the words the acolyte feebly whispered for the last time remained unheard by her ears:

"For the Lich King…for Lord Illidan…"

—

Thrall was an attentive listener.

"Will we ever be granted peace?" the young Warchief sighed.

"What action should be taken, Warchief?" asked Nazgrel, a high-ranking commander within the Horde, finishing his report.

Thrall rose up from his throne and made two steps towards his lieutenant.

"How many of them are there?" he wondered.

"Around two hundred, according to our sources."

The son of Durotan rubbed his bearded chin. Tiragarde Keep, the last outpost of the forces of Kul Tiras in Kalimdor. Though their numbers were few, those people were as fanatical as their deceased leader, Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore. It was not hard to guess that even the demise of their fleet and their ruler had not neutralized their desire to destroy the New Horde. He knew that the remnants of the Kul Tiras navy would continue to cause trouble for his nation. But what was the solution? For a moment, a strange thought embraced him. He almost found the urge to gather his troops for one more battle, burn the keep to the ground, and make sure that those Humans would find peace in the afterlife. But Thrall was not Orgrim Doomhammer, and he was not Blackhand; he had mercy.

"Nazgrel, nothing is going to be done against them," the Warchief drew his conclusion.

"But Warchief, they might present a danger in the near future…"

"I am fully aware of such a possibility. Only time will tell what threat they really are to us," he returned to his throne.

"As you wish, Warchief," Nazgrel replied. Thrall had hinted that the meeting was over.

Just as the commander was about to leave, a wolfrider, a big muscular male Orc, hurried into the throne room in Grommash Hold.

"Throm-ka, Warchief, I bring urgent news," he proclaimed, making Nazgrel stay.

"What has happened, warrior?" asked Thrall, his brow raised, suddenly he found the information not to his liking.

"Several days ago, a strange Human type surrendered to me and my group of scouts near the borders of Durotar. He seeks an audience with you."

"Is he related to the navy of Kul Tiras?"

"No, but he claims to be the emissary of the Prophet."

Those words echoed in Thrall's mind. The past had showed that the Prophet's presence was the omen of dark times. But who was that mysterious emissary? That was a dreadfully interesting question.

"Was this emissary armed?" Nazgrel interrupted the silence.

"He carried a very strange sword, which he surrendered immediately. He didn't have any other weapons."

"And his appearance?" he asked another question.

"Seemingly, he is an ordinary, young Human male. But one thing—his armor—makes him peculiar. It is dark and death-themed. So we cannot say that he really is who he claims to be."

"Where is he now?" finally spoke the Warchief.

"Just outside Grommash Hold. My teammates are…keeping an eye on him."

"Bring him here. I want to talk to this…" pausing in his statement, Thrall looked at the floor, "…_emissary_."

The Orc left, and sounds of armored boots began being heard from the hall several minutes later. The so-called emissary entered, two wolfriders to his left and right. Thrall's eyes widened; the person's armor was death-themed indeed—metallic skulls shone on his shoulders and knees in all their horrific coloring. He seemed to be more like an agent of the Scourge than the herald of the Prophet. He held his hands behind his back, and it hinted that they were tied. Long blond hair lay on his shoulders, and stubble had covered his chin. The stranger looked messy and tired. Then another wolfrider came, holding a sword in his hands.

"Let me see it." Thrall waved the warrior to his side. The Orc obeyed.

The Warchief took the weapon in his hand. The sword looked as terrifying as the stranger's armor: its hilt resembled the face of some twisted creature, possibly horned, and unknown runes had been carved on the blade. For some reason, the blade arouse a feeling of disgust in Thrall, he felt a chill stroke his skin. He returned the weapon to the Orc.

"You have asked for an audience with me?" the Horde leader started.

"Yes," was the reply. The dull light that was coming from the torches on the walls made the newcomer look even more malicious.

"Then give me answers to two questions. What is your name? And why are you clad in such armor?"

"Warchief, I am ashamed of my name and wish not to reveal it. But my story will answer your second question."

"Carry on."

Avoiding mentioning about his life before becoming a Death Knight, the stranger spoke about the battle for the Icecrown with the one called Illidan. He spoke about his own defeat, banishment, reunification with his soul, and the agreement to become the Prophet's emissary. He told a story that not only Thrall found suspicious.

"Do you really think that someone would believe in this fairytale?" Nazgrel walked towards the stranger.

"It is not a fairytale!" the emissary proclaimed, his voice raised.

"What does this Lord Illidan have to do with the Horde?" he continued, taking the role of an interrogator.

"Nothing."

"Then why has he sent you to stay here? Why not some other place?"

"I do not know that myself."

"He is probably lying," the commander turned to Thrall.

"Then execute me right here!" his shouted a raged response, "Death is better than what I had until recently and the life I have now!"

"There will be no executions," the Warchief stood up, "I find your story doubtful, and you will remain under arrest until your words will have been proven."

The Human bowed his head.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

That great power; he had achieved it. And it felt so good. It felt so exiting. In the first few days of his new…condition…his activities were limited to simple "exercise": using his mere hand and using his mind he brought lifeless corpses back to the sinful world: Ice Trolls and the Yeti, Dwarves and Nerubians. Magnificent, impressive, epic, amusing—one would find many words in order to describe such experience. Although blind, he had seen, with the help of his newfound powers, things beyond the comprehension of any living being and had found out knowledge hidden from others. Astonishing! But even more astonishing was that he was capable of doing more, much, much more. That was only training, a short introduction to the use of his full potential. Yet he still craved for more; he knew that he was capable of doing more and wanted to prove it to himself…soon he began practicing on the fallen Blue Dragonblight. It was just like he had thought it would be—splendid. The once mighty creatures rose to the skies once again. But it was certainly not the limit of his abilities; he simply had to learn. Indeed he was one of the most powerful beings in the world.

Who could have ever thought that a hopeless blind prisoner, trapped in a cell for ten thousand years, would one day rise to such great heights? Nobody! Never! He, Illidan Stormrage, had outmaneuvered fate itself!

The Second Lich King stood up from his icy throne, his head turned to the direction of Kalimbdor, his former home, his former prison. There, in the shadows of Ashenvale forest, life played under different rules, rules that he broke three times: when he first aided the Burning Legion millennia before, when he consumed the power of the skull of Gul'Dan, and, most recently, when he inherited Ner'Zhul's kingdom of the damned. That society would never allow him to come back, and he did not want to go back. He was satisfied the way he was—he had created a new society and had declared new rules in Outland and Northrend, the Plaguelands and Quel'Thalas, thus merging the impossible, Life and Undeath themselves. And perhaps the most pleasant thing, in a way, was that only his will kept such a diverse realm together. He had founded a society where his name was pronounced with great respect, not great hatred. No, there was nothing in Kalimbdor to go back to!

Or was there? Inside his warped mind an image appeared. He saw the beautiful features of a woman as though he had regained his sight. He wanted to reach out, to put his hand on her shoulder, to touch her long hair…but to no avail. He knew that if he tried, that image would simply melt like it had done before. Tyrande Whisperwind; he loved her. The memory of her had often been with Illidan Stormrage, but it was the first time it came to Illidan the Lich King. Perhaps it was an effect of Malfurion's "visit" the day before? Yes, Illidan was beyond many things, but he was not beyond emotions. But was that right? How could a wielder of power so great act as a pathetic slave of his misfortunate love life?! Was the terrible Lord of the Scourge supposed to be tortured by such feelings? The answer was positive: though he ruled the Undead, he was still living. That explained everything. But still…

He shook his head, trying to make the vision depart. No, their paths would not cross again. Or would they? He had little chance of defeating Arthas on that fateful day, when the two enemies met for a final showdown, but still emerged as the victor. So maybe there was hope after all? Tyrande. She would have made a great Queen…

"Enough!" Illidan shouted, hoping that such a method would finally help him clear his mind, "I have more important problems to worry about!"

The beautiful image dissolved—the slave regained his freedom.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kael'Thas Sunstrider cursed in his mother tongue. Cold alone was enough to drive a person mad in the damned land called Northrend. Even his long, thick scarlet robe could not provide protection from it. It was a terrible foe to the master of the magic of fire. He had left the encampment to concentrate on his thoughts and, most importantly, to avoid seeing those miserable Undead that he despised so much and whose base bordered his. Every day he was forced to see ghouls, crypt fiends, and other scum going back and forth through HIS camp. Sometimes he thought those were spies sent by his new _allies_ Kel'Thuzad and Anub'arak to keep an eye on the Blood Elves. And to think he used to believe that this "stay" would be a short-lasting one?! That they would leave with the destruction of the Lich King.

He turned his head and gazed at the tall icy spire of the Icecrown, his long blond hair being fiercely waved by the wind. But all had gone differently, and the Illidari had been stuck there for more than a month, but not because of some unforeseen disaster. It was due to Illidan's irrational behavior. It was more than a month before when the Blood Elf Prince first began to lose faith in the Demon Hunter. It was as though his Lord had been replaced by somebody else. Firstly, instead of destroying the Scourge, Illidan took over. Secondly, driven by some unknown thought, he spared Arthas, the man—no, not a man, a creature—responsible for the destruction of the Blood Mage's homeland. And thirdly, joined forces with none other than Kel'Thuzad, Kael's former colleague and another shadow behind the Elven tragedy. If he had not known better, he would have sworn that Illidan's aim was to irritate him. But he knew that was not the case. The influence of the Lich King's power had changed Illidan…to worse. And it was that change what made the future of the Blood Elven allegiance to the half-demon questionable…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of snow being crushed under heavy boots behind him. He turned around to see a spellbreaker moving towards him.

"My Prince," he said, stopping, "Lord Illidan wishes to see you."

——————————————————————————

A large tent located in the middle of Illidan's encampment near the northern Obelisk of the Icecrown, which served as a place of meeting of the leaders of the faction, was getting nearer and nearer. He could see the two banners of the Illidari that sentinelled the entrance. Three more minutes, and he would be inside.

"Ah, Prince Kael, we have been waiting for you." He heard a deep voice greeting him as soon as he entered, the voice of Illidan Stormrage. Indeed, he became the last to arrive; the other members of the Illidari elite—Lady Vashj, Kel'Thuzad, and Illidan himself—had already been there.

The tent's interior was really modest—no furniture inside. And it was not needed at all, for unlike the Alliance with its complex procedures that technically turned meetings into real ceremonies, the Illidari way was far simpler…

"Greetings, everybody," Kael'Thas replied, trying to make the best fake smile appear on his face. Though he had found Vashj a priceless ally, his relations with Kel'Thuzad, whom he had known since his studies in Dalaran, were much worse. And Illidan…he was an exclusive case, but at that moment there was no other option.

"Let us begin," said the Lord of Outland. "My brother's visit the day before has reminded me to arrange this meeting in order to discuss our positions worldwide."

Malfurion. Illidan had predicted his arrival. But when the Archdruid was brought as a prisoner to the Icecrown, the Prince was not among those who came to see him—they had fought the Scourge together, and it would have been a humiliating experience if the Night Elf had seen him amidst their common enemies.

"And although I had predicted that he would come, finding out WHO gave him the information about us was above my abilities," the leader continued, raising his voice in the middle of the statement, "but most importantly, WHY and WHAT GAME is somebody playing with us?!" he raised his hands to chest level and clenched his fists.

"Lord Illidan, maybe it was the Death Knight?" the Naga Sea Witch suggested.

"Arthas? In this case I cannot deny it, yet at the same time it seems highly unlikely," Illidan made a step closer to the Naga, "no matter, I will find it out eventually. But now Kel'Thuzad will describe the situation in the Eastern Kingdoms, our most unstable frontier."

Kael found the Lich's speech quite informative; he indeed had full understanding of the events that took place in the area within the last several months—a series of blunders and defeats at the hands of the Forsaken.

"I suggest that a force should be sent to the Plaguelands in order to help Baron Rivendare vanquish the rebels." He concluded his description with a suggestion and turned to his master. "Lord Illidan?" strangely, the Prince noticed surprise in the Lich's voice.

He looked at the half-demon and…It was hard to describe his pose: his head bowed, he had leaned in such a way that it was a wonder he could still stand. Something was amiss.

"Lord Illidan?" the trio asked in unison.

"My powers, my condition…" he whispered, heavily breathing, "…something…is not right…"

He felt as if he was tortured by some unknown force, that every part of his being was subject to torment. It was impossible to suggest the amount of pain he was receiving. He would have preferred to spend another ten thousand years locked in a cell to the horror he was experiencing.

"No, this cannot be, I am a half-demon, I am…" he muttered, maddened with pain, "…the Lich King…"

With that he fell to the ground, consciousness leaving him.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Kel'Thuzad could not believe it—he wished not to believe it. How could things get out of control so awkwardly? Only a couple of days before everything seemed to be in its place: the Scourge had been saved from complete destruction in the most unexpected twist of fate, and, although changed, had a future. But who would have thought a day before that such tranquility was destined to last for only about a month?! Now it was evident that they had returned to the same point they once started from. Again the Lich King, but this time the new one, was weakened by some unknown bane, and experience had shown that it would only be a matter of time for the Scourge to start falling apart. He almost swore that a curse was flying above their heads. Again the great project he himself had dedicated years of his life—and undeath—to was in danger.

But no! He would not allow all these years to become wasted! He would not allow the scheme he had contributed so much in be cheerfully proclaimed a failed experiment by their enemies…by his enemies. Arthas' failure doomed the first Lich King, almost left the Scourge in ruins; the Lich could not repeat the same mistake. He was the only hope of the Scourge. No, not just the Scourge, all of Lord Illidan's forces. What could the likes of Prince Kael'Thas Sunstrider and the Naga Sea Witch Lady Vashj possibly do to improve the situation? Absolutely nothing. They were too pathetic; their involvement would just worsen everything. What could either of the two do that would help a being with such great power? Tell some Elven priest to heal him? Or perhaps leave him in the care of a group of Naga Sirens? Aside from that, it was obvious that while they held, to some extent, allegiance to Illidan, they would not have minded the disappearance of the hated Undead that had claimed the lives of so many of their people. For that matter, he, Kel'Thuzad, did not care about their goals, whatever those were.

Driven by his thoughts, the Lich did not notice that the grim buildings of the Undead encampment gave way to the more primitive, mostly wooden, but skillfully decorated with sea-themed bas-reliefs, structures of the Naga. The serpentine creatures that he encountered on his way were giving them—Kel'Thuzad and the three necromancers he had chosen to help him—a look of despise, thus hinting what opinion they had on the uneasy alliance, but the fallen Dalarani mage was not bothered by it. The weather was unkind, and the tempest, accompanied by its melancholic howl, comparable to that of a banshee, grew stronger around the traveling four, surrounding them, almost giving the impression that these dark spellcasters were its messengers, its heralds. But they did not feel it embracing them; the undead generally did not feel any of that. He could already see the giant tent he left to get aid several hours before, when the Master fell to the ground, loosing his senses. Soon they would be there…

…but the closer he got to his destination, the more it became obvious that certain 'changes' had been made. The entrance now was guarded by two rows of Blood Elven swordsmen by its sides, three in each.

"_A quick reaction, Prince_,_"_ thought Kel'Thuzad.

Swords in their hands, the guards stood silently, not moving a muscle, hidden under heavy armor, as though they were artificial…yet they were not, and when the Lich and his companions reached them, swords crossed before the visitors with a specific metallic noise, blocking the way in.

"What is this?!" said the Lich, both angered and surprised at the same time.

"Nobody is allowed to enter," replied the first swordsman in the left row, possibly the leader of the group.

"Nobody?" Kel'Thuzad hissed, "Do you know who I am? Now let me in!"

"Prince Kael'Thas has given us an order."

"Prince Kael'Thas?" the Undead released a short laugh, "Prince Kael'Thas has no authority over me."

But they did not grant him entry.

"Well then, Blood Elves!" the Lich proclaimed, sinking in rage, and pointed at his company, "I have three necromancers with me. But if I go away following the order of your beloved leader, I will return accompanied by 50 abominations and pave my road with your corpses!" he raised his skeleton hand and clenched his fist. "Now I am giving you the last chance…"

"We cannot," said the swordsman, interrupting him.

"You have left me no other choice."

"Let him in." just as Kel'Thuzad was about to turn around and head towards the Undead base, he heard a familiar voice addressing the guards. The voice was solid; one could not feel any notes of fear in it. One thing had always been unquestionable: Kael'Thas Sunstrider was not a person who would sacrifice everybody to prove his point, but, on the other hand, he would not shake in fear before a threat.

The guards put their swords back into the scabbards. The way was finally free.

"Lieutenant, take your men to our base—there is no need for them here." The Prince continued.

"After me, men," the lieutenant turned to the needed direction and left his post, the others behind him.

"Wait here," Kel'Thuzad told the necromancers and flew into the tent.

The picture that appeared in front of him could have made him think that he really had telepathic abilities. There in the middle of the tent lay the mighty Illidan Stormrage on some old red Elven cloak, attended by a priest. He saw the Naga Sea Witch beside to him. Next to her stood the Prince himself. Both were looking at the newcomer. The healer was standing on his knees before the supreme leader, slowly making mysterious gestures with his hands over his numb body. The scene of Illidan's treatment caught his attention. Healing, an art in its own right, was a sacred knowledge which had been passed thorough the centuries...just like necromancy. Both of these two sciences had the same goal: they were supposed to help avoid a person's demise, only via different methods...

But healing was not a method that was needed to be used in that specific case!

"What is this?!" the Lich proclaimed, moving closer, "You, go away!" he told the priest.

The moment the priest stood up he was pushed aside by the Undead with such strength that he would have fallen backwards if had not caught by his shoulder by the Blood Mage.

"What is the meaning of this…" started Kael'Thas, giving the Lich a burning look and releasing the priest who had regained ground. How dare that freak show such disrespect to his subjects in his presence!

"You have assigned a priest to cure Lord Illidan?! Curses, Kael'Thas, where is your common sense?! He is not some Paladin or an Archmage—he is the Lich King himself; you cannot simply heal him with a power that has the Holy Light in its basis!" Kel'Thuzad interrupted, feeling as if anger was squeezing his essence out of the remains of his body. "What do you think you are trying to achieve? The bane he is suffering from is not a cold, a wound, or food poisoning! This is far more complicated, and you will need more adroit help in order to treat him."

"And what are you going to suggest?" the Prince hid his hands behind his back.

"Enlist the help of the Cult of the Damned," Kel'Thuzad turned to the entrance, "Allow me to summon them," with that he flew out of the tent just to return seconds later behind the three shadowy figures of the necromancers.

"Make way. This trio will carry out a ritual that would enable them to contact Lord Illidan and bring him back to his senses," the Lich explained calmly, "make way," he repeated since nobody did so when he first said it.

The priest, Kael, and Vashj did so. The necromancers surrounded the comatose body of their overlord, forming a triangle around him. One of them, the one closest to the entrance, began chanting words in some unknown language, words which, when merged, reminded some twisted song or poem performed in a slow, whispering, even creepy, way. The other two sorcerers followed the top necromancer's action—a grotesque parody of a miniature choir performing a carol. Then they simultaneously pulled their hands forward.

For Kael'Thas the ritual was something that not any spoken or dead language, even the one the dark spellcasters were using at the moment, could ever describe. Disgusting, gruesome, malevolent—he could find the adjectives, but not the nouns.

The necromancers clad in long dark robes and crowned with deer skulls had incredibly pale, dried out faces, their long beards resembling moss; a disturbing image, but, to make things completely unbearable, it was supported by the enchantment that sounded like a union of all the grim noises of the Great Dark. It even seemed that this ritual was consuming the dull light that was coming from outside. Yet the Blood Mage was not surprised; on the contrary, it had always been obvious to him that an organization as horrifying as the Scourge would have such eye burning ceremonies.

But the longer the Prince looked at this unholy act the better he was able to find a way of ultimately sorting everything that had happened since that fateful battle at the footsteps of the Icecrown. That day he bravely led his swordsmen and priests, archers and spellbreakers, in fight against the dreaded Scourge. That day he slew a number of the Undead with the help of the magic of fire that he wielded so adeptly. That day he once again met face to face with his old archnemesis and barely avoided demise by his cursed sword. But on that day fate itself fought under their banners, and they defeated the Lich King's army in what seemed to be the final battle. That day the spirits of Quel'Thalas were destined to enjoy vengeance…but did not. The Scourge continued to exist without Ner'zhul and Arthas, but virtually unchanged. Only a fool would suffer from the delusion of a 'friendlier' Scourge! That lot would never change! But instead of summoning a Phoenix and turning the trio—as well as the Lich—into ashes, the Blood Elf had to stand witness to this, this show.

He looked at Illidan with a sorry expression on his face. The Scourge was not able to change itself, yet it had a long experience of changing others. Illidan Stormrage, a figure most vulnerable to twisting influences, would unquestionably be affected—he had begun to be. He turned his gaze to Kel'Thuzad. His former colleague had become this skeletal monstrosity that was now floating in mid-air steps from him. The former mage had messed too much with the powers he could hardly understand…just like Illidan…just like Kael'Thas…the Blood Mage felt as if a frost bolt had gone through his body. Could something like that happen to him too? The mental image of himself in a similar form of a Lich, but with green orbs floating around him instead of chains, consumed his thoughts.

Kael shook his head, the image dissolving.

_No, I cannot allow it! I will not allow it to happen!_

For his people's sake, for his own sake, the alliance with Illidan, with the Scourge, had to be shattered while it was still not too late. He would burry it himself, but it all was not so simple: he would have to wait, to find the best way and hour to become free from the true curse of the Blood Elves…

"Lord Kel'Thuzad, we have made contact with the Master," Kael heard the voice of the top necromancer.

"Excellent!" was the response, "Now locate the origins of his illness!"

"It will be done." The necromancers raised their hands pronouncing the words louder.

"Master, it is…" the necromancer started.

The three Illidari leaders gave him a curious look, prepared to finally find the truth behind the enigma. Their hopes, however, were not fated to be fulfilled: in a blink of an eye, the dark spellcasters were thrown back by some unknown force with the strength of an Ogre.

"What has happened?" asked Kel'Thuzad.

And then they saw a remarkable and equally horrid scene. The necromancers, in unison, unleashed an agonizing cry that would have made their earlier enchantment resemble a celebration hymn. The skin on their bodies literary began to melt, puddles of the new liquid and blood forming around each of them. Words could not describe it. The priest who stood by Kael's side all this side closed his eyes and ears, hoping not to witness any of it. The Prince himself was about to throw up. But the nightmare ended, and in the place of the necromancers now stood three skeletons in the same tortured poses, their dresses stained with melted skin and muscles.

"Unbelievable," Kel'Thuzad, the only one who had not lost speech, broke the silence.

But for the Blood Mage it was not just unbelievable, the stench of left by the _results_ of the ritual. Lowering his head, he stormed out of the room. Luckily for him, the tempest had vanished, replaced by chilly, but still desired calmness. Once outside, he made a deep breath as though it would help him forget the carnage. The priest exited the tent. Vashj followed, and, after her, Kel'Thuzad.

"My Prince, how may I help you?" he asked.

"I'm fine." With a gesture of a hand he ordered the priest to leave. With a bow, the healer did so.

"What…was…that?" wondered the Prince when he found himself again.

"Something went wrong, the necromancers have failed their objective," was the reply.

"And what about Lord Illidan?" it was Vashj's turn to ask.

"Now we can only guess what is really happening to him, although I have a theory."

"And your…" the Blood Elf made a stop in his statement in order to highline the central word, "…_theory_…is?"

"Though he holds the title of the Lich King, Illidan is a living being. The power he wields is too strong for him, so it has a negative effect on his body and mind. Although even I cannot be certain."

"Is there a cure?" sounded Vashj's specific voice.

"I believe there are two ways to bring Illidan to his full potential. He can merge his essence with that of a powerful Undead being…"

"Ha!" Kael had to admit that the Lich's statement was amusing and weird. "And who is he supposed to merge souls with? You?!"

"I was just saying what I think. And the second option…" the Lich made a short pause, "he becomes Undead."

"Out of the question." The trio heard a familiar voice behind them.

They turned around and indeed saw the tall, winged figure of Illidan Stormrage, his face twisted in a grimace which hinted that his pain had not gone away.

"There is a third option," he made several steps towards them, clumsily, balance broken.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

He had lost the count of days.

Time meant nothing to him; he knew that it was flying around him like a specter, but his era had ended in Northrend. He felt himself outlandish. Like an item, an ancient artifact left from days long gone, he was lost in this fundamentally changed world. Nothing could bring new colors into his monotone life. A mere shadow of his former self, the ashes of his old glory scattered across the four lands, the once noble Crown Prince of Lordaeron walked back and forth in the small chamber that had been his residence since his coming to Orgrimar. No, one could not call it residence; more like a prison. Though the place was in reality a small room with a door made out of oak wood, not bars, it really was a prison to the former Prince. There were no windows, their substitute was a hole in the ceiling in the form of an ellipsis, through which light entered the otherwise gloomy place. Arthas did not know where exactly he was, for a black scarf similar to Illidan's had been put on his yes when he had been led out of Thrall's throne room. For all he knew, he could have been in the house of some high-ranking Horde warlord. Arthas sighed and finally made a pause in his _stroll_, accommodating himself on a wooden stool, putting his forearms on his knees, and lowered his head, looking aimlessly on the grey stone-paved floor below.

Silence began its reign as soon as the sounds of boots hitting against the stone had disappeared. Arthas closed his eyes. What an idyllic moment was there at that instant—absolute silence! It was wonderful. His mind was free. The memories of his days of a Death Knight in the servitude of the dreaded Lich King did not emerge from the deeps of his thoughts. Missing were also the self-destructive thoughts, the thoughts that, as he believed, were slowly guiding him to his grave. His mind was bare, clear of everything, at the moment, but he knew that such status was only temporary and that what he was afraid most would burst out soon enough like demons from the abyss.

He blinked.

Someone would have certainly found it funny that both a brave Paladin and a ruthless Death Knight in one face would be scared of enemies that could harm nobody with swords, arrows or spears. But for a person with the fate that of Arthas Menethil shadows of the past were far more dangerous that an enemy consisting of blood and flesh.

_You have doomed them_.

Arthas jumped to his feet the second his inner voice reminded him of his not so distant past. Again! Again! That was unbearable! He wandered back and forth at a quicker pace as though some unknown force was persuading him. Arthas was ready to give up what little he still had left in order to make it stop. Indeed, nothing in the world was worse than knowing that one could not remake what one himself had done. And in the specific case, lots should have been done differently…

The sound of the door opening brought him back to the present. Arthas turned in that direction, looking at the origin of that noise. First entered two grunts, the main fighting force of the Horde, tall muscular orcs, crowned with horned helmets, and carrying big axes. They took their positions by both sides of the entrance, each holding his weapon in both hands, ready to use it against the strange human if he would present himself a threat. Then another figure appeared in the doorway. Clad in black and yellow armor, the bearded newcomer was a head taller the other two green-skinned warriors. He walked inside.

"Greetings, emissary," he said, a smile spreading across his face.

"Greetings, Warchief." The former Prince shook his head, "What brings you here to see this unworthy one?"

Now the Warchief stood only at an arm's reach from his mysterious guest. The leader of the Horde was certainly confident, if he could approach a figure almost unknown to him so closely. Arthas wondered whether the orc really trusted him or simply knew that he was unarmed, and, hence, almost harmless.

"Well, first of all, allow me to apologize for, as you have probably found it, not the most suitable to your alleged status treatment," he circled around the room with his hand, "but unfortunately, you tale has raised some suspicions concerning your true goal."

"Think nothing of it, Warchief, the treatment is better than I had expected."

In a way, it was true. Though his room was not so comfortable, it was definitely not a cell. He was more like under house arrest. The orcs fed him three times a day, and the day before they even gave him a shave themselves, possibly afraid that their guest would either attack them with the blade or use it to split open his own throat.

"I am glad you think so." Thrall nodded.

Arthas looked into the orc's eyes, and noticed that in them burned the fire of intelligence and even…kindness. Like many other humans the former Prince once thought that the Orcs, the race that had burned Stormwind to the ground and had almost destroyed Lordaeron, were beasts, or at least barbarians. But now it was beginning to become evident that there was more to it, that everything was more complex. Yes, the Horde had ravaged the lands belonging to the human kingdoms and Quel'Thalas…_but so had he._

"No!" that sound accidentally escaped his lips as he fiercely shook his head.

That, without doubt, caught Thrall's attention—the orc raised an eyebrow.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Sorry, my…behavior…was not related to your previous question." Arthas explained. He almost spat; now he would become the jester of the Horde.

"That is one of the reasons why I have come here," Thrall said, "perhaps we could sit down."

"Of course."

Arthas sat a the wooden bed laid with furs located next to the wall while the orc accommodated himself on the same stool the human sat just minutes before near the parallel wall.

"It has been a week since we last met…" The Warchief started.

"An entire week?" the young man was not shocked. On the contrary, in his forlorn condition, each day seemed like a year. What surprised him was that none of the high-ranking Horde official had visited him.

"I wanted to give you some time on your own while we discuss the matter. Some time for you to…how should I put it…find yourself." The orc said as if he had read his thoughts.

The human was ready to chuckle over the last line.

"Believe me, Warchief, I have been trying to lose myself all this time!" with that statement the former Crown Prince of Lordaeron sank in uncontrollable laughter—that of the mad.

Confused, Thrall turned his head towards the guards. One of the green-skinned grunts who stood witness to this strange spectacle brought a finger to his temple; thus, without saying anything let his leader know what he thought of the human.

"Forgive me…Warchief…" the human said, breathing heavily, but at least finally calm, "…but my past haunts me still."

He silently cursed himself. Was there a limit to the amount of humiliation a person could go through one day?

The orc stared at him, and it was a look so deep that for a moment Arthas thought he was trying to enter his mind.

"Yes, this explains much." The giant orc said, stroking his bushy raven beard, "now, my puzzling friend, tell me something about your past."

Arthas told the orc that he had been one of the Lich King's greatest warriors against his will and said that he had killed the people he loved most, described his journey to Northrend and the defeat at the blades of the mysterious Illidan. There was nothing the Warchief did not hear from the human the first time they met. Like a mosaic with several of its pieces missing Arthas' tale was incomplete. Just like in the previous case he completely avoided any mentioning of his background, like a child desperately hoping the orc would not ask.

"What you have just described is known to me," Thrall said when the story was finished, "but what about you before the coming of the Scourge?"

"And what would the Warchief like to hear?" Arthas asked, managing to keep his voice from trembling.

"Your name, at least."

"My name?" he wished not to answer that question; deep inside he wanted to forget his own name.

"Yes," Thrall nodded, "everybody has a name. For example, I am Thrall, son of Durotan. And you?"

"Mordred," he pronounced the name that first came to his mind, "I am…Mordred…son of Arthur…"

He just hoped the orc would not understand that that he dealt with a fake.

"And I see that you cannot talk about your background without the demons of your past tormenting you." said the Warchief, taking his words for granted.

"Correct, Warchief." the human shook his head in agreement.

"Let it be so. I will not ask any further questions for the time being, but…" the orc paused, staring into his eyes as deeply as he did the time before, "…I fear for your rediscovered sanity, Mordred. The shadows of what had happened to you before might make you lose your mind, push you into madness."

"You read my condition like a scroll, Warchief, and I am afraid that your prediction might happen even sooner than you think." Arthas turned his face to the floor, locked in thoughts.

"True," Thrall stood up, now towering over his guest, "but I am sure the Horde knows a way to help you. fight off the spirits that haunt you."

The orc's words almost made the human jump up. The Horde was ready to _help_ him?

"How?" he asked immediately.

"There is a shaman from the Frostwolf clan, my clan. I am positive his skills and wisdom will provide you with the basis needed to fight off the spirits that haunt you. We could pay him a visit if you like, _emissary_."

Arthas hummed. The opportunity of somehow being free or at least to lessen the influence of his dark thoughts was like food and water for a traveler who had journeyed a long road. True, it could backfire on him lately, but the alternative…

"I am looking forward to it." The corners of his lips curved into a smile.

"Glad to hear it," Thrall said, "but the shaman prefers the serenity of wilderness to Orgrimar. I will gather a group to take you to him. Expect them in a couple of hours."

"I shall see you later,_ emissary_." The orc turned around, making his way towards the entrance.

Hours later the orcs did indeed come to pick him up. Without any resistance the human allowed them to tie his hands behind his back, the same way it had been done amidst the burning wastelands of the Barrens; it was obvious that they still knew nothing of what to expect from the stranger. The two orcs, the same the same two masculine grunts that had accompanied Thrall earlier, led him out. Light. Light was the first thing he met. It was so bright and sharp that the former Prince, lately accustomed only to shadowy surroundings was forced sharp his eyes shut. In an attempt to get used it Arthas began to open them slowly, his eyes embracing the light in small bits. Bit by bit. Soon he could tolerate the light like most other living creatures.

It was then he could behold the group the Warchief had gathered for him. More orcs. He could recognize them as wolfriders, the Horde's equivalents of knights. But unlike their Alliance counterparts, these riders were not clad in heavy and shiny armor—leather pants and horned helmets were what were to shield them from their enemies. Not such a very complex set of ammunition.

But the lack of protective covering was, in a way, compensated by their mounts, giant dark-furred wolfs. Unlike horses that were merely a means of transportation, the monstrous hounds were a weapon themselves. The human could imagine that in the midst of a battle they would aid their masters by giving wounds to their foes with their jagged claws and fangs. There were six mounted figures, but only five were wolfriders. The last one was different from them…the last one was the Warchief himself.

"You have decided to accompany me in person?" Arthas asked.

"Aye," Thrall nodded, "I have not seen him for a long time, and it would be a pleasure to speak to one so wise again."

Arthas had nothing to say. Not long ago he thought that wisdom was the last thing to interest the green aliens.

"I hope you do not mind riding a wolf?" the orc brought his guest to reality with that question.

"Believe me, Warchief, I have rode creatures much more scary." Arthas said with a dry tone. An image of his former mount, a grotesque skeletal steed, resembling a mix of a horse and a cow appeared before his eyes. He shook his head, the image disintegrating.

The orcs helped him mount one of the wolves, which, to Arthas' surprise accepted him how it would have accepted an orc. He now sat in front of the rider, a giant orc that could dwarfed both Arthas and Thrall if the trio stood next to each other. He tightly grabbed the creature by the fur.

Releasing some cry in Orcish that the former Paladin failed to make out, the Warchief rode his mount, the biggest of the wolves towards the city gates. A moment later the others followed. The human did not know how much time it had taken them to reach the city's entrance or, in their case, the exit, but it felt like a swift second.

Beyond the wall lay a dry barren wasteland which Arthas had learned to hate during his journey from Ashenvale to the new orc homeland. A person not familiar to it would mistakenly believe that it was lifeless; except for the burned ground, rocks, and rare, stand-alone trees it could not offer anything else to the eye. But in reality the area was home to its fair share of different species, most of them the last thing the group needed to encounter.

Arthas swallowed, but not from fear; the heat as high as during his first time was draining him out. His concentration dull, the human did not notice that the group had entered a canyon. He finally looked around. The location was a great place to stage an ambush. The numerous stones were large enough for any foe to hide behind them. Deep inside the man had a feeling that such a scenario was about to happen as if the rocks and sands that surrounded them whispered the information into his ear. He looked to the right again and saw a shadowy figure separating from one of the rocks. More figures appeared from behind the other stones He opened his mouth, determined to warn the party. An surprise attack had begun…


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Waiting for a battle to begin was indeed far worse than fighting it. There was nothing complex in combat—one merely had to swing his sword, mallet, axe, or mace, as well as try to avoid the blows that would come from your enemies. Skill was the factor that decided whether a warrior would survive or not. But the wait was much different. One had to stay in his place, overwhelmed by anxiety and—yes—a certain amount of fear, and think what the enemy had planned. What tactic would the enemy use against your side? A plain and traditional charge? Or a rain of arrows? Maybe they would unleash a magical storm over the heads of their foes? Three diverse methods of warfare, each would have different results if used. In the first case, a battle would begin. In the second one, the whole squad would be nailed to the barren ground without slaying a single adversary. In the third scenario took place, the effects would be ultimately unpredictable. The understanding of the situation was what made waiting for the enemy's move a heavy burden. A battle could have ended without even beginning, one of the sides enjoying a flawless but, in a way, unfair victory.

Arthas could not allow his gaze abandon the new threat…or the new threats. He turned his head left and right, right and left, seeing new figures emerge amidst the rocks of the canyon walls. The human had seen different creatures throughout his not so long but colorful life. He had seen and had fought the cannibalistic Trolls and the arachnid Nerubians, great Dragons and the snake-like Naga, the mysterious Faceless Ones and the tough yet stupid Ogres, and many, many others. But he had never encountered the creatures that were now ready to ambush them. Any of the figures was as tall as a Human; the bodies of these beings were covered with dense brown fur. Muzzles that of a pig or a wild boar were what they had instead of faces, the tusks in their mouths making such a comparison even more logical.

At the same time it became obvious that they belonged to the more primitive races that dwelled on the surface of Azeroth, thus in the same category as Gnolls, Centaurs, or Murlocs. The only kind of clothing the 'pig-men' wore was loincloths; not the best type of defense. The only weapons they wielded that Arthas managed to spot were maces. Though such a toy could easily turn a person's head into an abomination, the former Prince felt relief to some extent. He knew how these races fought: their main strategy was 'hit and run'. They would attack chaotically, with no ingenious strategy, following only their intuition. He saw none of them armed with bows; and that, as he believed, was destined to make things easier for the Orcs. The outcome of the fight would depend on those who could swing their weapons adeptly. Like Arthas…if his hands had not been tied.

"Quilboars," the Warchief said, looking at the beasts. The unfamiliar term Thrall used, in the opinion of the Human, was the name given to the pig-like beings.

The Orcs first noticed the hostile fighters at about the same time as Arthas did. They had stopped riding further, and now awaited the first move. Fleeing was not their way. Arthas could not see how many Quilboars were there in total, but he could speculate that the number of the pig-men was certainly three times higher.

One of the creatures released a loud and irritating cry that echoed across the canyon. Weapons in their, the Quilboars began descending the slopes.

"Warchief!" Arthas started with an intention of convincing the Orc leader to cut his bonds and allow him to fight on their side. They would need his aid.

But he was interrupted by a sound that somehow reminded a hiss that caught his attention, and one of the wolfriders, the one closest to him and his companion, released a gulping sound and fell off his steed, an arrow sticking out of his throat. Arthas immediately turned his gaze back up to the natural walls of the canyon determined to find the source of the deadly bolt. And found it—a Quilboar, previously unnoticed, with an arbalest among the rocky landscape. Unlike his fellows, he was not coming down, his location ideal for his exploits. The pig-like arbalist inserted another arrow into his device with the intention of taking down another of the unlucky team. Yet it turned out that luck was not with the Quilboar either; Arthas was not the only one to notice him—Thrall had too. The bearded Orc pulled his hand forward, and that second lightning came from it, accompanied by what sounded like thunder. The bolt accomplished its objective—it struck the beast's head, and after several moments the beast fell on his stomach, dead. Since there were no more arrows sent against, Arthas assumed that the fallen was the only one to represent his class in the ambush.

But the Quilboars had already reached the ground with three wolfriders engaging them in battle. Interestingly, it seemed that the wolf that lost his rider only moments before wanted to avenge the demise of his fallen master. With a loud howl the animal charged on the enemies, knocking one of the pig-men to the ground, tearing its flesh with its fangs. The creature cried in agony, two others coming to his aid too late.

The Warchief continued to provide the Human with surprises. He raised his mallet, and two wolves materialized by his sides in a blink of an eye. But unlike the one he was sitting, the two new ones were not beings of flesh and blood but spirits. Without a command from the one who had summoned them the two phantoms rushed into battle as though the Warchief's mere will was what drove them. The scions of Thrall's shamanistic powers, the wolves had only one purpose—to serve the one who brought them this plane of existence.

Impressive all of this was, but, as Arthas thought, more aid was needed to fight the beast, and he was ready to provide it.

"Warchief, allow me to fight with you!" shouted the former Prince.

A trace of thought crossed Thrall's features, a trace of a thought so deep that for a moment Arthas thought the Orc would reject such an idea.

"Free him from his bonds," Thrall addressed the wolfrider who shared a mount with the human and under whose watch Arthas was, "he might prove himself to be valuable help."

With the Warchief released a battlecry the words of which Arthas failed to remember, and went off to join his comrades in battle.

The human frowned.

_I might?_

Did the Orc have doubt in his swordsmanship skills? For Arthas Menethil, who had always been known as a hot-headed person, that line was virtually an insult. Yes, he was not able to release bolts of lightning from his palms or summon spirits in the shapes of wild animals. Yes, he had lost his old abilities of a Paladin. But one thing was without question—he knew how to fight. And he _would prove_ himself to be valuable aid.

Angrily, he looked in the Warchief's direction only to see the powerful Orc crush the skull of another Quilboar with his mighty hammer. If Thrall had same thing to him years ago, he would have probably made the Orc eat his words, but now Arthas was ready to forgive the Warchief for his ignorance and pretend that he had heard nothing. What could the Orc possibly know about him? There were more serious issues to attend to, and making new personal enemies at a time like this would be incredibly stupid, especially for one in his already complex situation.

By the time Arthas came back to from the labyrinth of his thoughts, the wolfrider had already cut his bonds with a dagger. Finally free, the Human lost no time and dismounted, rushing to the fallen Orc with an intent of "borrowing" his weapon; his former companion watched him attentively, prepared to come after him if the stranger decided to use the chaos as an opportunity to flee.

But unlike the ghostly wolfs Thrall had summoned, the giant Orc's concerns did not materialize. The Human did not try to escape the Horde. Reaching the corpse, the human bent down. The fallen Orc was laying on his back, the sword's hilt still in his palm yet fingers not gripping it. Arthas cursed quietly—the idea of taking a sword directly from the hands of a dead Orc was not a pleasant one to him. It was a feeling that seemed to have no explainable origin; it merely accompanied him. He would not have done the same in any other case, but now it was the only available weapon. The only alternative was fighting with his fists, yet what was the best weapon in a fight between two drunken peasants would not be the best choice in a military skirmish. He picked the blade up, and, blood boiling from eagerness, threw himself towards the nearest beast.

The call of the battle always consumed him. He always fought with all his might and endurance. For him everything else became trivial. That was how he fought, and, strange as it was, he had always enjoyed the art of warcraft. No, it was not relaxing—it had never been relaxing. But it was indeed an art…just like music. But while the result of a musician's effort was a melody, a warrior's result was the outcome of the battle. And just like with a quality of a tune the battle's conclusion would turn out horrible for its bard if made not properly enough—that was the simple truth, the only truth. If one apprehended it, he would understand what drove the Human in confrontation, why it thrilled him so.

Arthas easily vanquished his first foe, stabbing him in the chest with the blade before he could even raise his weapon for a strike. Yet as soon as he withdrew it from the lifeless body he came close to turning into one himself thanks to his own lack of attention. A spiked ball of metal, the head of another Quilboar's mace almost collided with his head—if a collision had happened indeed, the Orcs would have later had a hard time gathering his remains. But Arthas ducked, and the deadly ball missed its target. Using that to his advantage, the Human delivered a blow in his turn, splitting the creature's stomach open. The beast cried and fell to his knees, an act that made his organs spill out of the fresh wound. It was a disgusting feature that made the Human morally ready to throw up. He had to grit his teeth so to overcome the sudden feeling.

The battle was getting more savage with every moment. Bodies of Quilboars lay here and there, the newest masterpieces of the art of war. But their comrades continued to battle, loyal to their original goal, whatever benefit they saw in it.

Though many of the pig like beasts had fallen, the number of Orcs was fated to deteriorate.

One of the wolfriders found himself unable to stand up when his mount was finally slain and fell on its right side. That sealed his fate, and a moment later one of the Quilboars delivered the final, the fatal blow to him by slamming his spiked weapon against the Orc's face with all his might and hatred. The wolf whose rider was killed in the very beginning had fallen too, but under the wrath of not one but several dire enemies.

There were now five of them left—Arthas, the Warchief, and the three remaining wolfriders—against about a dozen of pig-men. The clash had had its influence on both of the sides, and that influence could not just be seen but felt as well. All participants were exhausted, and wounds like decorated the bodies of some, but it was not the end—none of the sides was ready to flee. The weather that ruled in the Barrens—the merciless heat—made all worse, none of the two sides getting any benefit from it. No clear line of defense was present; they fought chaotically, in a series of parallel showdowns.

Sweat tickling down his face, Arthas swung his new sword once more, this time decapitating a foe. Thrall unleashed yet another bolt of lightning that struck three of the attacking Quilboar one after another, but this time none of them perished. The Warchief tool the initiative, charged his wolf at the trio, and hit the first one with his hammer, making him fly to the side a get impaled on the blade of a wolfrider. After that he engaged the two others, but obviously the pair was no match for a hero with the power of Thrall: another chain of lightning left one more creature dead and the other at the verge of following his comrade into the afterlife. The Warchief was one of the greatest fighters and spellcasters in the world, so for the primitive beasts challenging him was comparable to suicide.

The weird alliance of the Orcs and the Human was winning. Most of their foes now lay breathless, mixed with sands and blood. A bit more, Arthas was sure, and the rest of the attackers would meet a similar fate.

Then the strangest thing happened— a yellow aura encircled each of the Quilboars. To Arthas this was somehow familiar. It almost reminded him…

"They're being healed!" shouted the Warchief, presumably explaining the phenomenon to his new brother-in-arms. His heavy hammer fell on the pig-like creature again, finally bringing the beast to the ground—even magic had failed to save him.

Arthas, spitting on the ground in anger, looked around, trying to find the unnoticed before spellcasters, but another thing caught his interest. In the same direction they came from, in about a hundred meters from the battlefield he saw an unfamiliar shape. For him it seemed not to be somebody but something. It looked like a dummy made out of hey…but it was not supposed to be there. Lacking enemies to fight—all the remaining Quilboars were exchanging blows with the Orcs—the Prince stormed towards it without thinking it over.

A mistake on his behalf. When he was half way there another anomaly happened—two boars appeared by its sides out of nowhere. Surely a work of a shaman; just like Thrall's pets. Arthas stopped, preparing for defense. But just like the new obstacles in his way, the unexpected help was also supernatural. Two phantom wolves passed him, taking on the boars. Spirits fought spirits.

_Thanks Thrall._

With no opposition Arthas reached his target and cut into two with one strike of a sword. But having dealt with the creation, he did not expect to face the creator. A bolt of magic hit his right shoulder. Pain affected that area of his body. When he turned to the side from which it came, he saw another Quilboar, no way distinguishable from the others of his kind, standing next to a giant boulder behind which he allegedly had been hiding, at the very foundations of the canyon wall. He carried no weapon with him, so it confirmed that the one before him was a shaman.

The Human, enraged by the numerous nuisances the Quilboar had provided him with, charged at him, determined to finally end it. But the spellcaster had one more surprise left. Arthas did not understand what was happening—he only saw a green flash and then…


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

The feeling he was experiencing that moment was that of unimaginable dizziness. Though the pain that had burned his shoulder had left him, concentration was beyond his abilities. He could only lie on the ground, defenseless like a small child. His future was to be decided by a primitive pig-like shaman, and, as he had come to understand, to a certain level, the mentality of the Quilboars, it was almost certain that there would be no future for him—he would simply be slaughtered like a lamb by a butcher. That was certainly the end. Alas, an end very pathetic.

He did not know for how long he had spent in this condition. He could not see anything either—a spectrum of all the colors of the world was whirling in his eyes like a tempest. What sort of a spell had the creature unleashed upon him? A really helpful one unquestionably. He had underestimated the Quilboar shaman just like he had underestimated the power of so many foes in days gone by. His ignorance had turned against him a number of times before as it now turned against him one last time. Arthas Menethil, a man who had made many mistakes, never learned from them. That was his biggest blunder, the one that not had just been following him all his life but leading him in it, ultimately bringing him to a deep pit in which he fell like a blind man; a pit out which he was not destined to crawl out…ever. That was his life—a series of error that not just affected him, but hurt and ruined the lives of so many, both people he knew and strangers. This was its outcome. But, on the other hand, if he was right, he would not be able to make any more grave mistakes. Was it punishment or salvation?

An unknown amount of time passed, but no final blows were delivered. Very odd. Perhaps…perhaps he was already dead? Yet that was not the way he had imagined the afterlife. Certainly this chaos before him could not possibly be the alternative to life.

Soon, he began to feel the ground he lay on. Maybe his sight and hearing would return to him as well? He really hoped so. His hopes proved to be true. Slowly the chaotic mix of colors began to dissolve, its ingredients returning to their rightful places. Shapes began to form.

But the first shock came to him even before he could eye his surroundings. His hands felt...grass beneath them. It was impossible! The Barrens were a burned out area. He should have felt rock, he should have felt sand, he should have felt dry land! Grass was not something he would have touched if he had been in the Barrens. Even more shocking was what he saw when he could perceive again. Trees of all kinds, an infinite number of them, stood tall and green where a completely different type of landscape was to be. Instead of the sounds of battle he could hear the singing of birds and the wind playing with leaves.

Arthas sat up, long wrinkle cutting his forehead in a hint of deep thoughts. This made absolutely no sense to him. How did he get here? For that matter, where was he? Those two questions were the only thoughts occupying his mind at the moment.

He got to his feet.

The change in the weather was hard not to notice—the ruthless heat had given way to a more moderate, fresher climate. He was glad there was at least one improvement.

But still, riddles were needed to be solved.

And then the first explanation visited him. His eyes widened.

"Ashenvale?" he whispered.

Did that mean…

The Prophet, Thrall, him fighting side by side with the Orcs—was all of that a mere dream? Perhaps he had never left the realm of the Night Elves, but simply had fallen on the ground from exhaustion. Had he dreamt it all? There was only way to find out…

Immediately, he pulled a hand under his cloak—if he was right, he would certainly find IT in the scabbard. The sheer thought almost made him shudder. The cursed runeblade Frostmourne, the sword with the malevolence of a demon. But there was no sword like there was no scabbard—The Orcs had confiscated it. He also looked at his armor. Though the Orcs had not demanded it to be taken off, they had removed the skull regalia from it, being uncomfortable with decorations like that. It was a deed Arthas, having the same opinion, was thankful to them for. Their absence as well as that of the runeblade indicated that he had not imagined all of his recent adventures. For some reason, that conclusion was relieving to him.

At the same time, it opened a bigger possibility of the other scenario being true. Just like Illidan had teleported him from the Icecrown, the spellcaster could have teleported from the Barrens to some other location.

He looked around once more. There was no unique feature that could let one distinguish Ashenvale from any other forest in a short time. He could have been stuck in any wooded area in any part of the world!

But that assumption raised yet another question. Was the Quilboar shaman such a powerful and skilful master of his craft that he could send anybody in distances so great? If so, then his mastery of magicks was simply above any uncertainty, the pig-like creature would have been a tough rival to Illidan or Medivh in his days as a Guardian. But this made no sense at all. He really wanted to laugh at the speculation that made a humanoid boar seem like an equal to the greatest sorcerers of all times…but he could not.

There was only one way to solve the mystery. Arthas began to walk forward. He did not know what to expect in the end from this exploit, but he would let fate guide him.

The sense of time again abandoned him. He knew not for how long he had been walking. He simply continued his path. Sooner or later—it was logic incarnate—he would come to…he would come to…to something. He was ready to encounter something negative: his experience had shown him that the bad always comes first. Yes, he was morally ready to encounter it…but, at the same time, he carried no weapons with him, so he had no idea what he would do if he bumped into a wolf or a bear, not to mention a Troll or an Ogre. Climb up a tree and wait till it looses interest and leaves? In this particular instance, he could not deny the possibility of this. But while nothing yet happened to him, he would just continue to walk, hoping that at least once things would not go the typically insidious way they usually did and that an exception would apply in his case.

The strong winds, completely not felt on the woods lowest stories, made the leaves on the peak of the mighty trees tremble, their movements reminded music, and it felt as if the wind was playing them like a bard played an instrument. For a person who had recently heard the melody of battle, this new, serene song was relaxing. A worthy substitute.

Eventually, he reached the edge of the forest…or one of the edges. A big road divided the woodlands like a river divided two of its banks. It was indeed a real road paved with cobbles of stone, not some pathway used by hunters and rangers. So he was not stranded in the wilderness! That was an example of developed infrastructure, which meant that civilization was right ahead! It could not be far! He only needed to go down the road in any direction.

But what would he find ahead? The map of Azeroth had never been absolute—nobody knew how many lands still remained undiscovered. Perhaps he would stumble upon a secluded society that had never come across the Horde, the Scourge, the Burning Legion, or even Humans? On the other hand, what kind of greeting could receive in the lands belonging to these peoples? A warm welcome? Worshipped like a divine entity? Maybe the locals would simply have a feast, him being the main ingredient in the meal? In a world that constantly plagued by supernatural and interdimensional threats, a highly developed culture could easily have much in common with a primitive tribe.

But Arthas had no other choice. What was destined to happen would happen. He stepped on the road for the first time. What course should he choose?

"_North_," was the first option. And he selected it by moving in that direction.

After what felt to be about ten minutes, although he could not be completely certain he made a turn a long with the road, finally seeing another sign of the mysterious civilization. It was a village.

He stopped in his place. Several more minutes and he would be at its borders, yet he lost the desire of going there. He recognized the architectural style—wooden one and two-story buildings with triangle rooftops—it was the one common to all Human kingdoms. That was what kept him from going forward. What if he entered it? Would the inhabitants recognize the once proud Crown Prince of Lordaeron? On the other side, before him could be any village in any Human kingdom let it be Stormwind, Gilneas, or one of the remaining outposts of Lordaeron. But still, what if…

Just to be on the safe side, Arthas admired the job the Orcs had done to his armor. With the insignia of the Undead now absent he would probably have fewer problems with the locals. Aside from the almost unseen crack between the plates Illidan's blade made when the half-demon delivered his victorious strike during the battle for the Frozen Throne there was nothing suspicious. The villagers might even mistake him for a traveling hero.

The next thing he knew he was already within the limits of the village. The best thing to do was to look around the place before he decided what to do next.

As he plunged deeper into the settlement his earlier fears disintegrated. There were many people on the streets, dozens of them—Arthas suggested that the village's population was surely over a hundred. Some of them were simply ignoring the newcomer; some threw looks at him. But these looks were not filled with terror or hatred— their expressions gave the notion seemed that they had simply taken him for a guard or a wandering mercenary. He silently thanked the Light for it, and truly feared that one of the townspeople would recognize him and shout "Prince Arthas!" in a unity of panic and horror.

At the same time, Arthas had the wish to ask anybody from this bunch of townsfolk about the location, to find out under the banner of what king or feudal were these people living. But it posed a problem as well—if he asked somebody, he would just raise suspicion, since that would inevitably lead to trouble.

He stopped; in his opinion, he was already near the settlement's hearth. Seriously, what should he do? He needed a plan. He could not simply go forward and forward and forward, passing countless villages until he would reach some major city that would be familiar, the ones like Stormwind or Stromgarde.

What happened next brought an end to his doubt hesitation. He heard loud noises coming from the distances. They kept coming closer and closer, making both the former Paladin and the townsfolk freeze in their places. Confusion was what now reigned in the street. One could already make them out: screams and cries, escorted by the sound of copious people running.

That moment he saw a young man, probably about twenty years old, running down the street.

"The Scourge! The Undead have emerged from the woods!" he shouted hysterically literary without stopping.

Then panic inherited confusion's mantle of the overlord of the crowd. Men, women, children— their screams and cries merged. People tried not to lose an opportunity to hide. Those who leaved near darted back home, locking the doors and shutting the windows. Arthas was sure they would try to hide in their basements. He also knew their attempts were meaningless—the dreadful undead warriors would still find them, and the poor people were doomed.

In all this madness, he was the only one who was still in his place. Then he saw two children, a red-headed boy and a blond girl, about six and eight years old respectively, running his way. The children were holding hands, their mood the same as the mood of the others. As they reached him, the kids separated and grabbed him by the cloak, gripping it. Instead of finding a place to hind, the pair wanted somebody to protect them from the undead terrors. For the Prince their lives were his responsibility.

Trying to find a solution, Arthas looked around, spotting an old barn some distance behind him, which had the impression of being abandoned for more than ten years. He grabbed the children by their hands.

"To the barn!" he proclaimed and bolted towards it, pulling the kids with him.

They were not the only ones who were to hide in the old wooden structure. He saw several other panicking people, those who had nowhere else to hide, entered it too. As soon as the trio did the same, one of the peasants closed the door.

"There is nobody else on the streets," he explained his actions.

"Then you have done right," Arthas shook his head in approval and let go of the children.

They moved from the doors. Arthas gazed at the people inside—a dozen including himself—men, women, children, and elderly. The men had worried expressions on their faces, the other tears in their eyes. Arthas bent down before his "adopted" kids and put his hands on their shoulders.

"Everything will be alright." He said warmly, almost in a fatherly voice, trying to cheer them up. Yet he knew it was nothing like that—hiding in this place was only a means of delaying the demise and undeath, not avoiding it. Something else had to be done.

The noises outside became more diverse. The people could hear movements not like the movements of human beings. They could hear the howls of the ghouls, and the roars of abominations. But the worst of them were the screams of the unlucky that had already been found by the Scourge. The screams were loud and unbearable which made the survivors feel as though the pain of the victims was being transferred to them.

Standing up, Arthas carefully made his way to the old staircase that led to the second floor with the aim of peaking out of the window. He did not consider his actions a solution to the problem, but he wanted to at least see what was happening. On the next floor, technically crawling, he got to the window. Suddenly, the noises stopped coming.

But just when he was about to do what he had planned, the door got torn down by some unknown but terrible force and fell to the ground with an earsplitting bang. The children cried. Deserting his previous task, Arthas turned his attention to the new threat. Cautiously, he inched several paces towards the stairs, trying to remain unnoticed for the time being.

From his new location he saw two figures in the doorway. The first one resembled a skeleton, but only the upper part of his body—or the remnants of it—was present; beneath was only a cloth akin to a skirt. A helm crowned his skull, and chains floated around him. The undead to his right was complete. A female Elf, her skin color was that of a decaying corpse. A hood covered her head, but left out the long ears; her eyes burned red under the shadows. She held a giant bow in her hand.

The young man's eyes widened— he knew that pair; he knew _who_ they were.

Kel'Thuzad and Sylvanas Windrunner.

But the question was _how_…


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

He could not believe it. Kel'Thuzad and Sylvanas were fighting on the same side once again?! What in the name of the Holy Light had been happening these last several weeks? The surprise made Arthas lose his common sense—he found nothing to cling to in order to come to an explanation. It now seemed that everything had mixed in this world—the winter snowfalls had become the sunshine of late spring; draught had become a flood. Everything now appeared to be out of place, and even the most unlikely of alliances did not give the impression of being beyond the boundaries of reality. A couple of more changes and discoveries of the kind, and he believed the world would simply collapse. Perhaps Judgment Day, a concept he was introduced to when he was studying to be a Paladin, was indeed fast approaching, and the series of all recent alterations served as its omens?

He pondered what could have reunited these two under the same banner.

Had Kel'Thuzad joined forces with the rebels after being exiled by Illidan? He doubted that—this faction of Undead was called the Scourge just a couple of minutes before. But what if the young fool had simply mistaken them? It was possible.

Had the new Lich King somehow regain control over Sylvanas and her rebellious followers? The chances of that seemed higher, at least to him.

But no matter what answer lay behind his question, something needed to be done. The intentions of the Lich and the Dark Ranger were definitely sinister. But what could _he_ do? He had no sword or hammer to defend the people below. Nor even a sickle, for that matter. Some protector he turned out to be.

For him, a person buried deep in thoughts, it felt as though hours had past since the arrival of his two old "acquaintances", yet, at the same time he understood those were merely fleeing seconds.

Sylvanas was the first one to take action—she withdrew an arrow from the quiver on her back, put it in the bow, and sent it to the bunch. The poor souls attempted to save themselves by running into different directions, but salvation was not with them. One of the women fell from the Banshee Queen's first arrow. The same man who had closed the doors behind Arthas was as unlucky as she was—he received a frost bolt in his leg from Kel'Thuzad and fell on his knees, unable to move. Floating next to him, the skeletal sorcerer put one hand the back of the mortal's head and the other on his chin. A simple movement of the bony hands, and the peasant's neck was twisted. The same applied to the rest—they all were doomed. Like a heard of maddened animals they would run around the place, but to no avail. Sylvanas was blocking the only way out One more villager ran up the stairs only to fall off them with an arrow in his back.

Arthas watched the carnage, himself at the verge of breaking into tears. He wanted, no craved to help the people. But what could one without any weapons do? And then an idea came to him like divine providence. He would summon, or at least try to summon the help of the power of the Holy Light.

But would it aid him, Arthas Menethil, a person who had slaughtered his own father, mentor, and countless others? That was questionable. At the same time, the people bellow needed its help more than he did. If the Light was indeed so pure and rightful, it should without the slightest doubt assist him—assist _them_—in his attempt no matter what he had done in the past.

He focused, reciting the required incantation. He hoped the knowledge he had gained during his studies would not fail him. The image of the Dark Ranger, his first selected target, filled his mind. Arthas mentally unleashed on Sylvanas the wave of his wrath.

And it worked.

The undead archer got consumed by a golden aura. The holy fires burned the being of shadows and rage that was the Banshee Queen like real flames. The effect overcame all of the young man's expectations—the Dark Ranger fell to the ground under the pressure of the might of the Holy Light.

Yet there was another foe left to deal with. The skeletal mage who had just murdered another villager by striking him with two frost bolts in a row noticed his companion's troubles, and, looking up, saw the spring of the problem. He raised his hands in a mysterious gesture, clearly attempting to cast some spell of his own, but it was already too late for him. The same yellow aura embraced him as well. Arthas thought he heard the Lich hiss in frustration. But while Sylvanas had been thrown on the ground, the Lich became subject to another action—he was slammed against the barn's wall with such ferocity that the clash would have broken his every bone if he had still been a living being. Yet it only resulted in him loosing consciousness, but it was enough for that moment.

Unfortunately, the survivors of the recent brutality had lost the remnants of common sense under the pressure of experienced terror, and poured out of the building. It gave the impression that after all that happened they cared little about what awaited them outside as long as they would be out of the shelter that had turned into a slaughterhouse for them.

Immediately, Arthas jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs. He had no idea what to do next—he had not thought of that before taking down the two undead warlords. But he would dedicate a couple of seconds to deciding his next move.

Not everybody had fled the barn. As Arthas reached the ground floor he was met by the same two children. The pair, fear holding their faces with a tight grip, was waiting for him, the only one they thought could protect them. Wanting to avoid their painful features, the young man turned to his defeated. It was unbelievable; he had never thought, he had never seen his healing abilities, which were a weapon against the unholy at the same time, could inflict so much damage on not just the undead, but on the most powerful of their accursed kind that it would make them mere shells of their past selves, powerless at least for some time. Yet there was more to that than the sense of triumph; confusion came as well, bringing more weirdness to the already bizarre state of things. How could his powers improve so greatly after all that had happened? Another question needed to be asked.

But he would think about it later. Now he needed to get the kids to safety before the Lich and the Dark Ranger come to their senses.

"Quickly," he said, grabbing the children by their hands, and moved towards the exit. He peaked out only to see the empty streets. Oddly, he found no Scourge troops, and, even more strange, he saw none of the people that left the shelter only what seemed to be a minute before.

"Where did they all go to?" he simply could not hold back the words.

At the same time, the situation allowed the trio a prospect of fleeing the city unnoticed. He turned his head to Sylvanas. In the worst case scenario he would seek the aid of the Holy Light once more.

A minute later, they were already cautiously wandering the empty streets of the settlement. Every second Arthas would look in opposite directions, expecting a group of ghouls, abominations, skeletons, or any other walking undead monstrosity appear from behind a corner or pour out of one of the wooden buildings.

Everything was quiet, very quiet, as if everybody and everything had simply vanished. As if they had been consumed by the ground itself…or were simply lurking. On their path they did come across several bodies of the peasants: three or maybe four—the supposed King of Lordaeron did not bother counting. The houses, one-story structures made out of wood, stood intact. Another anomaly—the Scourge, as he knew—and his knowledge was unquestionable—always left destruction of epic scale in every settlement it "visited". Yet in this case, the damage was not just minimal, by the bloody standards of the terrifying army it was nothing, as cynical as it might have sounded. And how would one explain the soul-tearing screams coming from outside he heard when he was in the barn?

Was there something more to it that met the eye? Just like a mosaic with several of the pieces missing, everything that he had witnessed that day was incomplete. Something that could have made the mosaic of reality full was absent, and with it absent was the sense behind it. Yet he merely needed to put these pieces in the needed places in order to fill in the blank spots, and the picture would become clear. It seemed so easy, but he knew not where to find the remaining bits.

So they walked; from the beginning he had decided that running was not an option—one had a better chance of examining the surroundings, and if the enemy noticed them a run would not save them.

They were merely out of the village; he could already see the rows of houses ending. Yet that brought more questions. What next? What about the children. Would he travel with them until he reached another village or town and leave them there? And what about himself? He had not yet decided what to do.

He would think about it on the way…

Strange sounds captured his attention. They came somewhere from the distance, from behind them. They were too familiar to him. The sounds of hooves, the sounds of a slowly moving horse. Somehow, he doubted it was a horse…an undead steed was a bigger possibility. He could imagine the horned nightmare appearing from a neighboring street. And the worst part was that one could rarely encounter such a mount without a rider…

It was getting closer, and Arthas knew that they needed to get out of its way for their own sake.

Arthas noticed that one of the empty houses to his left had the door wide open. Thus it became their new shelter.

Once inside, he closed the door and slid to the floor.

Now they were in the large entrance hall of that house. On the opposite side was a doorway that led to the main part of the dwelling. Just to the man's left was a window that served a source of light and fresh air. On the wall was hanging an ax, like any other peasants used to chop lumber. Though, he was not skilled with that weapon, it was still better than nothing.

"What…is…going to happen to us?" the girl spoke for the first time, fear chopping her speech.

"We wait until it passes," he whispered, "in the mean time, stay away from the window—whatever is out there might see us. Even better, hide there," he pointed at the doorway that led to the next room.

The girl nodded her head in agreement and, taking the boy by his hand, pulled him towards the suggested place.

Arthas, who had become like a guardian to them in the midst of all this mayhem, wanted to find more about the children. Were they brother and sister? What were their names? What happened to their parents?

But that moment a more important thing was on his mind. He could hear the sound of steps—the opened window made it easier—they had become louder. To Arthas it meant that the steed was just outside. He wanted to crawl to the window and do what he failed back in the barn, to look outside. But was it a good idea? What if the mount's rider, possibly a Death Knight, would spot him? No, it would be better if he peaked out a bit later.

Arthas closed his eyes, tired from everything, yet still listened. He heard the steed stop in its track as soon as it passed their refuge. But why would he do that?

The human felt like cursing—no way could the dark rider have heard them run, not to mention shut the door. Or maybe it was not a Death Knight but some sort of Undead he had never encountered before? An Undead with an excellent ability of perceiving sound, and it now was trying to uncover his prey had hidden.

There was still another explanation: shades. These ghostly beings could without doubt be considered the best spies of the Scourge. In their true form, the phantoms resembled charred skeletons. Among the most successful experiments of Ner'zhul, they had the skill of remaining invisible to the living, and only special magic could expose them. They had accompanied the invasion forces numerous times. Who would be sure there were none of them this time?

And one of the specters had probably noticed them, and was now revealing their location to the knight.

He heard the rider dismount—the clanking his armor made indicated it. Arthas did not have to be a prophet to predict where exactly the Death Knight would go, what house he would visit. Immediately, Arthas darted towards the ax. The Orcs used a battle version of it in their fights; surely an ordinary one could prove to be as effective. He grabbed it just as the door opened.

Arthas turned to the intruder, ready to meet him in confrontation, and…felt he was unable to stand from the realization. He now understood everything; all suddenly became clear. No, Judgment Day, as he thought mere minutes before, was not approaching. He was not in some unknown village in the Eastern Kingdoms—he was in Hell.

Shocked, he could not take his eyes off the newcomer. That person was almost like him: same height, same built, same facial features even the same dark cloak on his shoulders. Yet differences present as well. Arthas' armor, otherwise identical to the knight's, lacked the skull regalia on it. Their hair differed in color: while the Prince's head was crowned by golden locks, the knight's mane hanged grey and lifeless. The incredible pale complexion of the Scourge agent played the role of another distinguishing feature. One could take him for Arthas' brother, a seriously ill, dying brother. But it would have been a false assumption. Arthas recognized him…recognized himself. And he recognized something else. The sword his "twin" held in his hand was Frostmourn itself, so familiar both the hilt and the blade's form were to him.

The young man remembered his mentor's last words to him; words about a "special place" for the Prince.

Now everything made sense: the Lich and the Dark Ranger fighting on the same side again, the unusual Scourge attack, and finally, the one before his eyes—they were not what they seemed to be.

He was capable of coming to only one conclusion—he had fallen in battle, aiding the Horde, brought down by the magicks of the Quilboar shaman.

What a miserable demise. What a horrible punishment: the shadows of his past had not left him; on the contrary, they had followed him to the afterlife, and he was destined to spend an eternity tormented by their apparitions. Only now he began to understand how foolish his thoughts of stabbing himself with Frostmourn, whether they were after the reawakening in Ashenvale or during his journey through the Barrens, actually were. He would have merely speeded up his arrival to this…this…

Arthas sighed deeply and sadly nodded his head.

He only hoped that Thrall and his fellow warriors avenged him and that the minor contributions he made for the better future were not in vain. And perhaps one day Humanity would understand what really happened to its lost son, Arthas Menethil, and shed at least one tear for him. A tear of mourning that he deserved.

He looked at his darker self. All this time the Death Knight had not made a move, looking him with a sadistic smile spread across his face. Surely what the Prince was going through brought him delight.

The human's fingers gripped the weapon harder. If that was his fate then…

"So be it," he whispered, clenching his teeth.

With that he charged to duel the one he believed to be most responsible for his present state…

———————————

Kael'Thas Sunstrider knew what had to be done. There was no alternative. Yet he desperately wanted to talk to somebody wise, somebody loyal about it so to get the heavy rock his soul had been carrying for days.

In quick pace, he walked across the Blood Elf encampment. While doing so, he felt cheerful that soon all these structures would not be standing in a couple of days, and that was already an improvement. The cold, the cold that he learned to despise so much throughout the duration of his stay in Northrend not in the least mattered at the moment.

He soon reached the landmark—the temple, the residence of the Elven priests, mages, and spellbreakers. He knew he would find him there. And find him he did, almost bumping into him in the doorway in the process.

"Voren'thal, my dear friend," started the Prince, "I need you to hear me out."

"My Prince," the one known as Voren'thal the Seer gave him a small bow, recognizing his status, "I am always ready to hear you."

Then he turned his head and coughed heavily

"Forgive me, your Highness, but the harsh climate of this accursed place has ruined my health," he explained, "I am afraid that if I spend a couple of weeks more here, and it will guide me to the grave," although he said so neither his voice nor his gaze contained any complaints.

"Do not say so, in a couple of weeks we will not be here. The Blood Elves are going somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Back to the Eastern Kingdoms," Kael'Thas said, and a smile crossed his otherwise concerned face.

The older Elf looked at him in disbelief as if he just heard that a mythical character was real.

"Is this related to Lord Illidan's illness?" he asked.

"In a way. But he is going somewhere else;" responded Kael'Thas, "Let us take a stroll through the camp, and I will tell you more."

"I good idea."

As they walked the Prince told him more about Illidan's plans of healing.

"I have managed convinced Lord Illidan that my participation in his journey is not necessary, and that the Blood Elves could be more useful elsewhere. Kel'Thuzad has been advocating a campaign to crush the resurrected Sylvanas Windrunner and her rebellious followers. But Sylvanas was once one of us, so surely it will be easier to negotiate? And if they refuse to join the Illidari, we will strike them. That way, we can save time, and sort out one problem as Illidan solves his personal one. So I told him."

"So we are going back for another war?" Voren'thal raised his brow. The Prince had figured it out that the Elf was skeptical of Illidan and his ways.

The Blood Mage thanked the spirits of Quel'Talas that Illidan, due to his illness, was incapable made of reading his thoughts, and that the magic of the towers that guarded the base would make any shade spy Kel'Thuzad could have sent visible.

"No, this is merely an excuse I used—this is the only way the Blood Elves can leave the alliance with Illidan."

Kael'Thas glanced at the dark spire of Icecrown.

"And, Voren'thal, I was thinking of appointing you the one to lead that mission."


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Darkness; he had embraced it a number of times, and now it was embracing him. It felt endless. Was he walking in it? Was he swimming in it? Was he flying in it? He could not know that. Perhaps it was neither of those. He thought it was almost a different plane of existence where the laws that shaped the physical world worked not at all. It was his refuge, his salvation.

Indeed…refuge, for it was not the darkness of the Burning Legion or even the Scourge. He had not somehow traveled to the Legion's outpost of Argus just like he was not sitting on the Frozen Throne in the grim chambers of the Icecrown. He was somewhere different.

That moment he, Illidan Stormrage, resided in the deeps of his own mind. Unbelievable as it might have sounded to most of the thinking beings on the face of the world, he, at least since recent times, was able to do that. For him it was the only way of escaping the nightmarish pain that had been tearing his essence with its talons like a hawk would tear the body of its prey. Only by plunging in this self-induced coma could he find tranquility for himself. He, one wielding power so great, had no other alternative at the moment. Only dwell within himself, have faith in his allies and minions, and hope that they would follow his instructions properly.

He wanted to curse. He wanted to wish he had really followed the order of Kil'jaeden and had simply destroyed the Lich King Ner'zhul, thus putting an end to everything related to him, including his impressive power and abilities…he wanted to wish but not wished. Even with the negative side of wielding the Lich King's was now open to him, he still believed that what he had done was right. He would have destined himself for another stage of torture if the flow of time had been reversed in some way and he had stood before the shattered Frozen Throne once more. That great power was worth going through unimaginable suffering, and he saw nothing strange in it. His personality was complex, and nobody ever understood him and would never understand him! Neither his numerous foes nor his few allies! Such a talent lay beyond any of them!

But he decided to divert his thoughts—if one could call them thoughts, since he was in something that could be considered a comatose stasis—his equivalents of thoughts from a subject so unpleasant to him, and so he did. For an unknown period of time he simply enjoyed the calm. There was nothing around him; there could not have been anything around him—he was not in a physical place. Eventually, random images began appearing before him like stars on a night sky. Illidan was not surprised; after all, he was inside HIS own mind and those were HIS own memories.

First, he saw his brother, still a young Night Elf, during the earlier stage of his druidic training, casting a spell, probably attempting to summon the Treants, only to fail. Illidan would have smiled if he only could. He would watch him try to repeat the same spell again and again and again with the result still the same. Good old Malfurion with his beliefs in the unlimited power of nature.

_When my current bane is lifted from my head, brother, you will be surprised to discover what unlimited power really means and who it belongs to._

Another image flashed in front of the half-demon; it did not replace the previous one—it seemed they existed parallel to each other, at the same time. What an extraordinary phenomenon ones mind was indeed!

This new figure dancing in front was none other than Tyrande, the woman he truly loved. She was literally dancing. He could not remember where and when he saw her do so. Surely during some festival, but which one of a number of holydays the Night Elves used to celebrate? No answer came to him. On the bigger scale, it did not matter much. He gazed at her, as strange as it might have been for someone whose eyes were burnt out ten thousand years before, but he could see so clear as if he had traveled in time and was now in front of her in person. In her long silvery gown and moonlight burning in her aquamarine hair, she gave the impression that the goddess Elune had descended from the night sky to join her children and worshippers in celebration. He wanted to keep watching her until the end of time or at least until necessity summons him back to the physical world. Yet he was playing with his memories, and where one can find memories funny, pleasant, and beautiful, he could come across those of sorrow, harshness, and nightmare as well.

A third image reached out to him. A relic from a time not so distant—no, not distant at all—recent! An image of somebody he wished not to see. A titanic figure clad in molten armor, he could have been considered the very incarnation of damnation: fire burned in his eyes, and his skin was the color of the element of fire.

Kil'jaeden the Deceiver. A being so malevolent, it made even Illidan, somebody who could not be scared easily, the Lich King himself, under whose command were creatures gruesome in their own right, desire to make a step back.

Kil'jaeden the Deceiver. A powerful demon lord who had spent countless years plotting and who would not rest until he gained entry into Azeroth and destroyed it.

Kil'jaeden the Deceiver. A spellcaster mighty and sadistic, who had painfully warped the old Orc shaman Ner'zhul into entity known as the Lich King.

Kil'jaeden the Deceiver who was the former master Illidan failed on several occasions. The lord of the Burning Legion had forgiven him more than one time, but this time his wayward minion went too far. The point of no return had been passed, and never again would there be another uneasy alliance between them. Moreover, Illidan had become Ner'zhul's replacement as the being the demon lord wished to see annihilated first.

It was impossible to interpret his final words to him otherwise…

_Illidan did not expect him. He did not know why, although it was not illogical on the demon's behalf. Maybe it was because he simply did not want him to "visit" him while he was still reaping the rye of his glorious victory in a struggle that he once almost thought impossible to win, and he merely did not want the Eredar spoil his hour of triumph. Predicting the reaction of the demon could not be treated as a hard task. The dark lord would speak in his proud manner, congratulating him with a job so well done and gifting him with compliments; congratulating in a way that one could mistakenly claim to notice warmth in his voice. Yet in reality the intentions of the Lord of the Burning Legion would be to continue to exploit his pawn. To Kil'jaeden a minion was like a mule to a peasant. And one as powerful as Illidan—a potential threat as well. Just like Ner'zhul before him._

_He came to him, materializing in an avatar like he did the first time in Ashenvale and the second time before the Black Temple in Outland. This time it happened within the dark chambers of the Icecrown a day after the battle for its Throne, but in this case his avatar was significantly smaller in size, a bit higher than the average height of a Kaldorei. _

"_Well done, Illidan," he started, his voice like thunder, "You have done the Burning Legion an invaluable favor."_

_Illidan grinned—Kil'jaeden was too predictable. The blind Demon Hunter just sat on his throne, refusing to dedicate his attention to the dark lord's words for some time._

"_Now the Scourge will fulfill its original function and serve the Legion once again."_

_This statement contradicted the new Lich King's views._

"_I am afraid this is impossible, Great One," he calmly replied, as if they were discussing something trivial. _

"_What?!" the demon growled so loud that it felt that the walls of the icy spire were about to collapse._

"_The Scourge will indeed change," Illidan stood up, "but I have no intentions of turning it into the Legion's toy. It is now a part of the Illidari, and the Illidari are on their on," he continued in the same manner._

_He had made a choice, and he was not afraid of the consequences. What could the demon lord, who was not even physically present there, do to him? Nothing._

"_The Illidari?" Illidan heard the demon laughing in what sounded like amusement. It felt first that he plainly did not take the Night Elf's words seriously._

"_You pathetic worm!" Kil'jaeden's tone changed as he shouted in a way so powerful that it could have brought the roof of the Icecrown on the head of the defiant second Lich King and buried him under the debris, "The power you drained from Ner'zhul's helmet has made you lose the remnants of your already twisted common sense! You do not even understand what you have just said!"_

"_On the contrary, I have thought well…" he was not able to finish his statement._

"_Do you know what consequences your decision will have on your fate?! The demon interrupted._

"_Indeed, I did take it into consideration."_

"_Then you have made your choice," this time the leader of the Burning Legion spoke calmer, "I should have known better than to trust such an important mission to a miserable soul like you."_

"_Empty words—they can change nothing," Illidan responded._

"_I agree, but remember one thing. In you I found someone to destroy the treacherous Ner'zhul—I will find someone to vanquish you. Remember this, Illidan, and tremble in fear when any soul mentions my name."_

_With that the avatar disappeared in flames and smoke._

Kil'jaeden the Deceiver could not be underestimated. Although he was not able to step into Azeroth himself, his nets were always there to catch his victim. No doubt, he was searching for a perfect candidate for to play the central role in his upcoming campaign against the Illidari. The Demon Hunter would have to deal with this threat in the future but first thing first.

The three images before him dissolved in darkness like sugar in water. He needed to regain his strength; he needed to regain his power. He needed to cure the illness that was tormenting him so much that he could not even walk, not to mention cast spells, properly and had to spend infinite hours in this stasis, virtually comatose.

What a fool he had been! He had held the remedy, the key to his salvation, in his own hands, but had undervalued it. How pathetic of him!

That day, when he first passed out Kel'Thuzad summoned three necromancers to try and cure him or at least find out the source of his suffering. The trio failed their prime objective—he did not feel even the slightest bit of relief, yet, in a way, in the second case, they succeeded. But only in a way—the uncontrollable power of the unconscious Illidan turned against the spellcasters and destroyed them. On the other hand, an image manifested before him—not them—an image of a sword. He recognized that sword without hesitation—his blades had crossed with it on several occasions. It was the cursed runeblade Frostmourne.

How had he missed it? I was so obvious—Frostmourne had been fueled by Ner'zhul's essence, so it had to contain a portion of his power. A portion so tiny that even Illidan did not notice it first, but without it he was incomplete.

And, eventually, he was destined to find out what it was really like being "incomplete". But luckily, the glimpse of backgrounds he got then was enough for him to guess the sword's possible location. And he would come and claim what was rightfully his…

———————————

Night's curtain covered the harsh land, bringing with it the cool replacement of the unbearable heath that reigned there at daytime. The moon appeared on the darkened sky along with her handmaidens, the stars. But otherwise nothing much changed in the Barrens. The region gave the impression of being lifeless at night just as it did in day. Rocks and some small number of trees along with their shades served as the only decorations of the dull landscape. It was quiet—it was supposed to be falsely viewed as serene environment. Yet the wise ones who spent their time exploring the fauna would say that at night predators go on the hunt.

It was at night that a not a large group, in a way a scouting party, landed on the shore of the inhospitable area. Most of them came by sea—the aquatic serpentine Naga, represented by both Myrmidon and Siren, and led by one of the most powerful Sea Witches ever. The rest, a number of Banshee, Abominations, and other types of Undead in the company of one of their leaders—came by air in a Scourge transport. It did not take them a lot of time to disembark and join their uneasy amphibian comrades.

"Secure the area," hissed Lady Vashj, turning to a group of her minions. The living snakes that replaced her hair ten thousand years before made her look the most monstrous of the mutated former Night Elves.

The Naga broke into several groups of three and went ahead with their task.

"Lend them assistance," sounded another voice, a voice more deep.

Vashj turned her head to see the Lich giving command to…nobody. Or was there something…or some things? In the last forgotten number of weeks she had got a better understanding of the Scourge and had an idea who the skeletal mage was speaking to. The best spies of the Scourge, the shades, had been taken along.

Vashj looked at the sea; they were not even the first wave—they were the introduction to the coming of Lord Illidan himself, her powerful but suffering master who had sent them to this place before willingly submitting himself to coma. He had promised to contact them and give further instructions later. What they were doing now was the first step. Illidan had seen a city of Orcs in his vision—he had said something of that kind, so the runeblade which contained the last portion of the old Lich King's power he needed to drain was not far.

"Lady Vashj," she heard the Lich addressing her.

She turned to his direction. Kel'Thuzad, his literary bony hands crossed on what was his chest, was floating above the sands a couple of feet behind her.

"You have spoken of the natural allies of Naga that would be of valuable help to us," his tone combined tones of curiosity and irritation, "where are they?"

"Patience, Lord Kel'Thuzad, they should first be summoned, and I invite you to watch this process."

She crawled closer to the water where two Siren, female Naga sharing some resemblance to their Lady but with flounders instead of hair rather than snakes, stood, half submerged in the water. Kel'Thuzad followed her.

"Begin the summoning," she told them.

"Yes, Lady Vashj," one of them responded, and, to the Lich's surprise, they began to…sing.

In all his years Kel'Thuzad had not heard such a melody. No, he disliked it, but it was so unnatural that he could find no words to describe it.

Several minutes later, several giant shapes burst out of the ocean in the distance: giant winged serpents.

"We call them the Couatl," said Vashj, a smile spread across her face, looked at her companion.

——————————

Even though he despised this place with every fiber of his being, Kael'Thas Sunstrider had found that the realm could not seize to amaze him. For more than ten years the continent had been the stronghold of the Lich King Ner'zhul, yet the grip of horrifying ruler of the Scourge over it had been lax. He had never accomplished to ultimately purge Nortrend from every living soul; compared to the scale of damage the Undead and the Plague had brought to Lordaeron, Northrend, aside from a couple of areas, felt almost untouched. Kael'Thas had encountered the native creatures of the land; he had come across Goblin workshops; he had visited a mercenary camp. He believed it was a miracle that the latter two landmarks were present here of all places. What made them come to this land in the first place and, more importantly, what in the world made them stay here? But as long all of it was of aid to him, he would admit that he was glad.

His people, the Blood Elves, would leave the place the next day, going back to the Eastern Kingdoms for talks with Sylvanas Windrunner, as he had put it, but unknown to Illidan, who went on a different journey two days before, having sent Vashj and Kel'Thuzad in front, Kael'Thas would be staying for some extra time. He had one more matter to attend to before forever leaving the accursed place.

He and his new "companion" stood on top of a mound overlooking the mercenary camp.

"So yo agreeing, Elf?" asked his accompanying person, a tall, muscular Ice Troll with a specific accent.

"The price you have set for your services seems to be a bit too high," the Prince gazed at the grey sky—he could not stand looking further in the face of n Ice Troll, a distant relative of the same race the Elf's ancestors had fought for thousands of years, "but can you guarantee that you and your colleagues will succeed?"

"No worry, mon, me have big experience. We not fail no matta what. So whacha gonna say?"

Kael'Thas nodded his head; he had no choice—without the mercenaries what he planned was impossible, and it was not the price that mattered—it was the quality with which they would do their job, but the only ranking of it could come from the words of the candidates themselves.

"Fine."


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

The moon rose over the frozen continent, yet unlike the Barrens, the wastelands of Northrend had almost nothing that could have been affected by it. The strangling heat would not retreat, for there was no strangling heat. The night would not be cooler because there was no area in the world more cold than Northrend at day. The dead knew no sleep and needed not to hunt for food—dusk or dawn, day or night it did not matter to them. The living? Most of these beings were malevolent creatures, a menace to others at day just as at night.

Yet there were exceptions—some indigenous species, for example. The same applied to the newcomers, who, as recent events had shown were not a rare sight on the continent. The question was for how long? Most of them had already left: one part to the south-east, the other to the south-west. Along with them left their supreme leader.

But a minority of them remained, and they stayed for a purpose. Yet almost nobody outside their faction knew that purpose. Almost nobody…but two were partially aware…they had been told about it.

Night was the best time for their task. One could best exploit its offerings for his benefits.

Using their stealth and agility as best they could, they had infiltrated the camp unnoticed. The dark and shadows themselves were their true allies—they had lurked in them, carefully emerging out of them and moving towards the next ones that would consume them, to shelter them, to hide them from the rare approaching serpentine creatures, another sign that nobody was expecting them. And it worked. They had passed unnoticed, but everything was not over yet. Their skills of infiltrating enemy bases was not the prime thing their new employer was looking for, but their ability to deliver to him that what was required.

The small Naga encampment lay below them. They had climbed up one of the structures, —the Altar of Depths, their employer had called it— and were now sitting on its rooftop, unnoticed, taking a break and waiting for the right moment. They had time. Their aim was inside this small, one-story, wooden building

They watched a snap dragon, a lizard-like being the size of a big dog run by.

"Mon, what you think this is?" quietly said one of them, an Ice Troll.

His companion, a bigger and more muscular member of the same species, turned to him. The Troll was pointing at the big stone sculpture behind them. Whatever it symbolized belonged to the same breed as the other snakemen, but a difference was evident. On its back the creature had something resembling…wings? Or perhaps it was something else? The being or deity held in its hand a glass sphere the size of the Troll's head.

"Dunno," he said, the piece of art leaving him completely emotionless, "maybe their god? It is altar, mon, what other thing it might be? Secondly, why you care?"

"Me hate it! Hau baut we vandalize it when the job's done?" the Troll smiled wickedly.

The Berserker felt regretting that the Troll next to him, an axe waver, had become his companion on the mission.

"Idiot, we have more important things to think about than this."

"If what Elf say true, all be easy. If changes took place—we dead." He said after several moments of silence, "you remember how we to act?" he asked.

"Yeah, mon."

"Then," the Berserker turned his head left and right, looking out for anybody coming. There was nobody around.

"Let's move. Elf was right. They not expect us."

They began climbing down—their claws and the structure's very architecture making it easy for them.

There was no door; the way inside was open. They entered.

The place was dim-lighted, but still enough for them to see what they needed. The Berserker had to admit it—the Elf's descriptions did not fail them. Inside, a hall away from them, the two Trolls saw their aim guarded by a pair of Naga. First of all, they needed to get rid off the "guardians".

"Intruders?!" hissed one of the snakemen upon seeing the Trolls, notes of surprise piercing his voice, giving the Berserker more reason to believe that their role was mostly symbolic. Surely none thought somebody would be foolish to do something like this in the hearth of the realm of the Terrible Master the Elf had spoken of, even that 'Master' himself, the Ice Troll had forgotten his name.

The mercenaries made a few steps closer.

"Bye, snakes," said the smaller Troll, the axe waver, cheerfully, in a tone that felt somehow friendly.

In a blink of an eye, he pulled his hands to his belt, on which his weapons hung, and the next everybody inside noticed was a small darting axe striking the very center of the chest of one of the beasts. The Naga went into the afterlife without understanding what happened to him.

The next axe was dedicated to the second guard, but the other Naga learnt from his companion's demise. Swinging his trident, he managed to counter the incoming projectile, sending it aside. Yet even if he delayed the inevitable, he did it only for a split second. The blade of the axe thrown by the Berserker sank in his stomach, making him drop his weapon. Another projectile sent by the same character, this time in the chest, made the Naga join his fallen comrade.

The first part of the task was complete; now it was time to the second, the prime objective.

It…no, _he_…was levitating just above the floor level, a green sphere, a bit bigger than a clenched fist, floating over his head, the very thing that replaced him a prison, turning him immobile under its power.

In a way, he had similarities to their employer, the Elf. Their features and constitutions were similar; long, pointy ears in both cases. At the same tome the one before him was somewhat taller; his skin not pale, but purple; his long beard resembled moss…and a pair of antlers crowned his head. Without any doubt he was the shaman-like spellcaster their employer was talking about.

"Trolls?" he spoke, his sight stitched to them, expression that of the Naga, a one of surprise, "what are you doing here?"

"Comin' to rescue you, mon," the Berserker said, "watch if any snakes are comin'," he addressed his colleague.

The axe thrower, who had just retrieved his second weapon, nodded and sneaked.

"Now, how do I free you?" the Troll looked at the purple-skinned Elf and then at the floating object.

"You will have to destroy the sphere," the strange Elf replied.

"Ah, easy," the Troll took his last axe and threw it at the green object. The moment the projectile struck it the spellcaster fell to the floor.

"An old Highborne trick," he mumbled, getting up.

"Now we leave," the Berserker removed his other two axes from the Naga's body and put them where they belonged.

"But who sent you?" the spellcaster who the employer knew as Malfurion Stormrage wanted to know before venturing anywhere with the pair.

"Somebody you know. You recognize when you see. Now come." The mercenary moved to the exit, the druid following him.

"Everything clear," said the less muscular Troll when they approached him, peeking outside.

"Now we use all stealth we have and leave this place carefully until we reach forest Snakes stupid, they not locate us."

And they did. Slowly, carefully, trying not to make the slightest sound, the trio moved through the Naga encampment under the cover of natural nightly darkness. Soon they would reach the grove and the enemy's base would be behind.

They were almost there when a loud noise serenaded the area. It was as if something howled and hissed at the same. Turning around, they saw one of the Naga's snap dragons who had emerged from the corner of one of the grimy structures, unnoticeably to them.

"It summoning friends?" the smaller Troll asked, "what now?"

"We run, mon!" he replied.

The axe thrower was the first to do it, followed by the Archdruid, the Berserker at the end. Now they ran through the dense grove. Countless trees were left behind with more exactly the same ones on their way.

The Berserker did not know for how long they had been running—if it had not been for the Elf with them they would have been times more far, but he was surely unable to keep track with a Troll on his fastest.

The mercenary looked behind. He could see moving shadows in the distance, a number of them. The dragons; they chased their prey liked hounds. Perhaps they indeed were the hounds of the snakemen?

"They following us!" he warned his companions, "witch doctor, do something!" he called to Archdruid.

"We must have them out of our hair!" Malfurion stopped, the Trolls doing the same.

The Night Elf waited for the big lizards to get closer. They were not silhouettes anymore but clear shapes. The spellcaster raised his hand. The first beast jumped forward, wanting to knock him down and pull him to the ground. The mercenaries did not expect to see what happened next. It seemed as if the closest tree simply caught the small dragon in mid-air, grabbing it by the neck with its wooden clawed hand. It really happened; the Elf's magic brought it to life. The same fate fell on three more trees. The other snap dragons, five they were, suddenly stopped, looking at one of theirs. The captured one released an unpleasant hiss before the wooden captor threw him back with all its might, against the trunk of another tree. The broken body fell to the foundations. Another four trees came to life. The snap dragons found themselves surrounded. Their fates were now sealed—those who were hunters just moments before became the hunted. The Treants moved on the reptilian creatures, their wooden claws sharp and ready to strike the enemies.

The Troll mercenaries cruel and sadistic by nature and by the way of life they had led for many years watched with amusement and vicious delight the demise of the snap dragons, how they fell by the claws of their wooden executioners. Maddened, the beasts wanted to flee the clutches of the Treants, but luck was not with them. One of them, which attempted to escape, was immediately captured by two living trees and ripped in two.

But while the Trolls watched the carnage, Malfurion watched them. Repulsion filled him—he could not understand how somebody, not a demon, but a being of this world, a child of nature, would enjoy this butchery. He had not liked their company from the beginning, he was capable of getting along without their guidance, but he wanted to know under whose order they were and whose gold they were about to receive.

"We must go now," the Archdruid said, "this is probably only the first wave of pursuers. There will surely be more."

"Agree, but what about living trees?" said the Berserker.

"They are only a temporary phenomenon, and they will return to their true state."

The Troll nodded.

"But before we leave…" another thought came to him.

————————————

"You idiots!" the great Crypt Lord Anub'arak, the King of Azjol'Nerub raised his paws, wishing to drop them on the head of the pathetic Naga before him, "how could you let this happen?!" even the strong wind that went accompanied the heavy snowing could not scatter the words that came from him.

"Mighty one…we did not expect this…nobody expected this…not even Lord Illidan himself," the serpentine Myrmidon raised weak arguments in his defense, "nobody outside the Illidari was supposed to know he was here."

"Are you sure the creatures that…released…him were Ice Trolls?" the Spider King seemingly calmed down, yet the rage that burned inside him was so strong that he thought it would tear him apart.

"One of the Naga was still alive when I entered the Altar. With his dying breath he spoke of Trolls."

Anub'arak looked aside. Why had Illidan left his brother under the watch of these worthless mutants in a small separate Naga encampment and not under the guard of the Undead at the foundations of the Icecrown where the Naga warlord put in charge came to contact the Crypt Lord as soon as this failure happened? Why he had not taken him with him to Kalimbdor if he really wanted him witness the younger twin's glory? But surely the Great One had a reason for it.

"You should have appointed more guards. You have no idea what Lord Illidan will do to us if his brother gets away."

"The Trolls knew exactly where to look," the Naga Myrmidon, still fearing the Spider King's wrath continued to defend himself.

"Yes. I am afraid there was a traitor among us," Anub'arak turned to the Naga; the serpentine creature slowly nodded in agreement. This made sense.

"Did you send a search party after them?" after a moment of silence the Crypt Lord continued.

"The snap dragons noticed them first and followed them. Aside from that, I have ordered all the small forces I have to search for them before alerting you but I am afraid that with the snowfalls…"

"Yes, the snowfalls," the crypt Lord echoed.

These heavy snowing began soon after the Stormrage brother's escape—certainly not a coincidence. The King of Azjol'Nerub himself had witnessed the druid's command of the forces of nature; Lord Illidan had also said that his powers were beyond it, that he was capable of changing the weather itself for short periods of time in entire areas. By unleashing a snowfall he had erased all his and his companions' traces. But this continent was so twisted and corrupted that the changes made by the spell could last for more than intended. The Archdruid's trickery could very well turn against him.

He looked at the sky. Northrend was a continent, and the only ways to flee it were by sea or air. They were in the hearth of the continent, so it would take a number of days to reach the shore, so…

He turned to his lieutenant, a Crypt Fiend, who was by his side all this time.

"Gather our own search parties! Order to send messengers and alert all nearby outposts of the Scourge. Every gargoyle and frost wyrm should be raised to secure the skies. Let word I have ordered the destruction of every flying apparatus on the ground; those in the sky—made land. The traitor or traitors with their Troll helpers will be dealt accordingly, but Malfurion Stormrage should be brought back alive!"

"It will be done, Master," the undead spider responded.

The wind howled louder.

————————————

He wished his robe had a hood, so that the falling snow would not hide his blond head under its blanket. He had been waiting for hours, his sight aimed at the distances. Every moment he expected them to come down from one of the surrounding mounds or see them moving along a pathway. But deep inside he knew that he was running ahead of time. It was a long way—he himself had chosen this location. Behind him a Goblin workshop stood in its proud solitude, the only thing in the area that could fill the role of a memorable gathering point, a role that no stone or dead tree could play.

He sighed. It three days had passed since the last of his Blood Elves made his final footstep on Northrend, going back to the Eastern Kingdoms with one intention but under a different pretext. All of his Blood Elves, but not the last one—he was supposed to head them, yet he stayed. He stayed and spent three days in this accursed place like one of the lost souls Northrend was rich with. Perhaps, he was already a lost soul; perhaps he was not destined to lead his people in the future. If his schemes failed…

Still, he stayed because his conscience made him. He believed that it was partially his fault the person he fought with on the ruins of Dalaran against the Naga, when Illidan almost changed the world's landscape by manipulating the powers of the Eye of Sargeras, was now an honorary but still a prisoner of the same forces they had battled. He needed to free him, and the mercenaries he hired had the skill to do it.

But then what? Yes, he had hired a pilot and rented a zeppelin than was waiting for them on the airfield on the other side of the workshop. For how long would they fly? Even if the Trolls did their job perfectly without anybody noticing them, they would lead the Night Elf to him, but the captors would find out unquestionably, but he hoped he would have a couple of hours to his advantage. They would have to change transport as soon as they reach the coast of Northrend.

"Hey, mister, the zeppelin is ready, but we'll have to wait a bit more for the right weather," said the Goblin pilot, walking out of the building.

"Not to worry, one of the passengers has not arrived yet," Kael'Thas replied calmly, but understanding that time was little they had.

"I'll be on the airfield if you need me," the Goblin said went back.

The Elf Prince continued to wait. Soon he saw three figures emerging from behind one of the hills and moving down the pathway towards him: two Trolls and one Night Elf. Soon they were beside him.

"Kael'Thas Sunstrider?" the Archdruid raised an eyebrow, "I do not understand. I saw Blood Elves among Illidan's followers when I was their…guest."

"True, but the story behind it is very long," the Blood Mage said.

"I have time to listen. And does my brother know about your secret operations?"

"Your brother…" the Prince started.

"Wow there, mon," the Berserker interrupted, "you can tell stories later. We do job—you pay us."

"Let it be your way," the Elf gave the mercenary a look of irritation. He fought Troll raiders when Quel'Thalas still stood, and when his homeland was in ashes he employed these brutal and stingy creatures.

He pulled his hands under his cloak and withdrew two bags, throwing them the ground before the pair.

_They can pick it up themselves_.

The Trolls did so, immediately and enthusiastically.

"By the way, how did the mission go? Were you noticed?" the Blood Mage asked.

"Only by dragons, but they got chopped very quickly," the Berserker did, admiring his reward.

"One of them unleashed a howl, notifying the rest. No doubt the Naga know about my escape, but the snowfall I have summoned has covered our traces," Malfurion corrected him.

Kael'Thas looked at him—their problems would not be solved so easily.

"Ah, Elf mon," the other Troll, the axe waver, silent all this, spoke, "are snakes friends with giant flying undead dragons?"

The eyes of both the Blood Mage and the Archdruid widened as they looked first at the Troll who was looking in the direction the trio had just come from, then at the horizon.

The incoming shapes were familiar to them both. Frost wyrms.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

The weather was no obstacle to them. The tempest and snowfalls that had made even the skilled Goblin pilots wait could not stop the Frost wyrms. The dances of snow and wind that the heavens hosted at that moment did not exist to them. It was as if their very condition—life after death—aided them in the fight against the will of nature. The giant undead leviathans flew forward like arrows, piercing the sky. They had a purpose; they had been given an order, and only triumph or another demise could be its outcome. The beasts were getting closer.

Kael'Thas knew what they were looking for; Malfurion knew what they were looking for. Even the two Troll mercenaries understood their intentions. The Scourge was now aware of the druid's escape and had joined the search for what their serpentine allies had managed to loose. They were looking for him. The four needed to hide from the view of the undead dragons.

"Into the workshop before they notice us!" proclaimed the Blood Mage, darting towards the entrance, followed by the Night Elf and the Trolls.

They were now inside the large entrance hall that led to the other side, to the other exit, to the airfield.

"Forward," the Prince said, setting the example.

At the end of the hall they could see dull light, light of Northrend's day. To their sides were numerous doors, no point in counting them, that guided to the chambers and the work places of the dwelling Goblins.

Once at the opposite doorway, Malfurion was able to see the means of their escape. On the airfield before them stood three zeppelins, flying apparatuses that the small green humanoids were famous for. They would use one of them.

But they were destined to be disappointed. Only what seemed to be moments later the flying machines became the subjects of attack from the skies; one of the Frost wyrms hit them with its icy breath.

"No!" shouted Kael. To the very last minute he had hoped that the beasts were just on a search. He dashed outside.

An undead dragon, flapping his wings, floated in the air and brought down his main weapon on the transport. His companions bolted down like gale, striking, and going up once more. Under the pressure two of the zeppelins broke and large chunks fell to the ground. The Goblin pilot abandoned the remaining vessel, running for his life aside. There was no chase—he was not the target of the Frost wyrms.

If the last zeppelin was to be saved the Blood Mage needed to summon help. So he did. The undead beings of frost were countered by a supernatural being of fire, a Phoenix.

The summoned creature, flame the substitute of feathers, unleashed its fires on the horrifying opponent. With a pained hiss, the Frost wyrm raised higher, the right side of its exposed skull charred. Another wave of fire hit it in the chest. His companions, all four of them, rushed to help their teammate. Their attention was centered on the strange bird of flames, not the remaining flying apparatus.

The aerial battle was impressive. The Prince, the Archdruid, and the mercenaries stared at it. They watched the bird unleash fire on its foes as if it was a real dragon, they watched it being hit by the freezing breaths of the monsters, they watched as enemies attempted to avoid each others strikes by ducking or flying aside.

One of the dragons, the newest object of the Phoenix's attack, threw to the left chased by the elemental birds with two other wyrms on its tail. In unison, the pair unleashed their breaths on the fiery creature, yet suddenly flew up, and what they hit together was the wing of their retreating comrade, who, loosing balance fell to the ground. The Phoenix immediately bolted down rammed one of its former pursuers, the one it attacked first. So close to it, the bird unleashed another wave of fire that burned all the connections the skull had to the torso. Then it received a strike in the back—one of the two leviathans that originally did not chase the Phoenix, but floated confused, came to the aid of the surviving pursuer while the other returned to complete the primary task.

But once the beast lowered, it was met with magical bolts. The dragon hissed and looked at the nuisance: the two spellcasters. Changing plans, it landed near the remains of the first zeppelin. To the bolts added projectiles, axes aimed at his wings and chest. Still being fired at and hissing again, the monster crawled back, its intentions suspicious.

The Berserker, the incoming battle clouding his mind and senses, a condition familiar to all of his caste, withdrew the spear he had been carrying behind his back this whole time. The beast moved back once more, watching him. With a loud battlecry, the Troll charged at the winged horror, and threw the spear at it, which sank in the remnants of its chest. Suddenly, the beast leaned forward, catching the Troll in its jaws. With a strong movement of the wings the wyrm rose into the skies, blood dripping and gold falling on the snow below.

"_Seems like this one is more clever,"_ Kael had to admit.

The monstrosity was ready to use its icy weaponon the remaining trio, something happened to it. Its shape became less clear as though it had turned into an apparition. The wyrm was confused, not aware that it was the Blood Mage who temporary confined him to ethereal existence. The beast rose even higher unable to fight.

"What's he doing?" the words escaped the Prince's lips.

He found out soon enough…when the Frost wyrm fell from the cloudy height on the last zeppelin, destroying it under its weight in an act reminiscent of suicide.

"No, no!" the Blood Elf grabbed himself by the hair. It was unbelievable; he did not want to believe it. His plans were foiled by a suicidal undead reptile.

Kael'Thas, spitting in anger, looked in the direction where his pet fought the remaining two Frost wyrms. It was evident that the Phoenix would last long—it could barely flap its wings and receive strikes from its foes. Yet the Blood Mage was not worried, he would be able to summon the same bird from its plane once more, but it had a surprise for the undead. Soon, after another hit by the icy breath, the Phoenix disappeared in an explosion that seemed to set the sky itself ablaze. When everything was over, the charred remains of what used to be the Frost wyrms met the ground.

——————————

Staying was not the option. Sooner or later something—let it be a gargoyle, a banshee, or a shade—would come across the remains of the fallen Frost wyrm, and the workshop would be the first place the Scourge would pay a visit to. That and the fact there were no more zeppelins left. Kael'Thas and Malfurion had left the Goblin residence as soon as the fight between the Phoenix and the undead dragons was over. The Troll axe waver had gone the other way after asking to be paid for aiding them in the fight with the wyrm and receiving a negative answer. The Prince almost fried him alive that time for such claims.

Now the duo walked through the frozen wastelands, the weather finally softening. Yet these changes did not make the surroundings prettier: like always the skies were grey like stone, and the hilly landscape was not leveled to the ground.

They had been traveling more than a day, taking breaks once in a while. Kael'Thas did not know what would happen to them next. They had no supplies, and only a bit of water. He did not know what they were destined to find in the end of their journey. He expected all the Goblin zeppelins to have been dealt with by the Frost wyrms. Perhaps they would have to walk all the way to the coast. But would they make it there? What if the Scourge had destroyed the seafaring vessels just like they had done to the flying ones? Then they had lost. There would be no way to leave the accursed continent and he would never see his people again, would never find out to what future he led them.

The Archdruid who walked by his side was full with thoughts as well. The Blood Mage had told him about his brother's 'illness', and that explained why Illidan failed to give him a visit while he was his 'guest'—he did not want Malfurion to discover his condition, he wanted him to see Illidan Stormrage in all of his new-found glory. But was something the druid did not want to see. His twin was so misguided and unstable that it was not the things Illidan would be able to achieve with the Lich King's power he considered most frightening, but the thought that he would have these powers itself. Illidan was a riddle, and it was impossible to comprehend what was going on in his head and how fast he would change his mind. He needed to do something, but in order to make a difference he first needed to leave Northrend, so his concerns merged with Blood Elf's.

"Prince Kael'Thas?" they suddenly heard a voice, which gave them an impression that the speaker was somewhat surprised.

They turned in the direction the words had just come from and saw the one who spoke. To their south-east, in a distance short enough to see figures clear, on a small yet wide earthen mound stood one familiar to him, a figure resembling a giant spiked beetle. Next to him was another commander, smaller in rank, the Naga Myrmidon that was in charge of the encampment where the Archdruid had been held.

"Anub'arak," the Prince said. Where did they come from?

"So you are the traitor," the Crypt Lord continued, "I must admit that the work was done perfectly. Those stupid Naga did not expect your conspiracy and did not even guess what happened!" for a moment, he turned to the accompanying serpentine warlord, who had nothing else to do than lower his head in shame, "your mercenaries really had skill."

"Indeed they had, Crypt Lord."

"Unfortunately for you, we have come across one of your employees, and he was ready to show us the direction."

The Naga Myrmidon raised his hand revealing a severed head. Even though Trolls looked the same to him, Kael'Thas understood that that head once belonged to the axe waver. The Naga then threw it to them and it landed before the Prince's feet.

"The rest was a matter of the ancient underground paths of the Nerubians."

The Blood Mage had nothing say.

"He trusted you, Prince," the King of Azjol'Nerub spoke instead, "and he will be outraged when he finds out what you have done, and maybe he will obliterate your entire race for your betrayal."

"My brother…"started the Archdruid, his voice as strong as his spirit.

"I will tell you when to speak!" responded the Spider King, "as for you, Archdruid, I will not use any millennia old Night Elf toys to keep you here. I will lock you in a dungeon in Azjol'Nerub and hold you there until the Master returns," and turning his gaze to the Prince, he added, "the same fate awaits you, Blood Elf, I will let Illidan decide your fate," as he spoke, minions, ghouls and snap dragons, myrmidons and abominations, Crypt Fiends and skeletons, joined their commanders on the mound. Counting their number would prove to be difficult—so many of them were there.

Then Kael'Thas pulled his under his cloak and several moments later he was already gripping a sword, a weapon unusual for a mage, in it: Flamestrike, the blade of his great ancestor, Dath'Remar Sunstrider.

"Fighting is useless, Kael'Thas, we can bring you both down with numbers. There is not a single tree around that the druid can bring to life." Anub'arak calmly reminded.

"I am not intending to fight you," the Blood Elf responded.

The next thing he did astonished everybody, from the mighty King of Azjol'Nerub to the twin of Illidan Stormrage.

As though possessed by some entity, the Blood Mage grabbed his companion by his long green hair and put the blade to his throat.

"What is he doing?" asked the Naga warlord, shocked.

"Anub'arak!" Kael'Thas shouted, "If you give the order to get us, he will die by my hand!" he did not look at Malfurion, did not know whether the druid approved this way of…escape, "And the next thing this blade is going to pierce will be my hearth. A pity I will never find out what Illidan is going to do with you and your Naga friend for loosing his brother this way. The Scourge needed to use the power of the Sunwell to resurrect an amateur like Kel'Thuzad. Your master will need a new Well of Eternity in order to bring his brother back, one of the greatest magic wielders of all time."

It was just crazy enough to work.

"I am afraid he is serious," Anub'arak turned to his serpentine companion, "everybody stay where you are!" he proclaimed, his voice echoing across the area.

"Prince," the Crypt Lord addressed the possibly irrational Blood Mage as he began descending the mound, "surely this is not the way to act. Surrender the druid to us and I will grant you the opportunity to leave the continent peacefully."

"So you would send a chase party in my traces an hour later? I will not agree to this," the Prince replied, gripping the sword even more tightly, "and do not move forward!" he shouted when the Spider King was at the mound's foundations.

"Then perhaps…" the Crypt Lord continued and continued to move forward but more slowly, "we can make another deal. What would it be?"

"You and your minions will turn around and go where you came from!"

The King of Azjol'Nerub raised his paws up in what seemed to be anger.

"Let it be so, Prince, I shall retreat," he turned this back to the captor and the hostage.

Yet it was merely a distraction on the behalf of the Crypt Lord—out of nowhere a swarm of flying insects, purple in color, appeared. They were numerous like locus—they flew around them like winds. They were aggressive like wasps. Before Kael'Thas could react, he felt stinging in his both arms; his weapon fell, barely avoiding injuries to his captive. Yet luck was not with Malfurion, just like the Blood Elf he became a victim of the uncontrollable attacking swarm.

The Blood Mage dramatically waved his hands, trying to get the bugs away from him. That made him vulnerable to a powerful hit in the shoulder that sent to lie on the snows below. Immediately, he noticed the Crypt Lord before him raising his mighty paws. He rolled back just in time, and the only thing Anub'arak was able to hit were snow and ground. He attempted a second time, but Kael rolled once more, and the result was the same. The exact thing happened the third time. The fourth attempt failed in the very beginning—giant roots burst out of the ground becoming the Crypt Lord's bonds.

"_Roots?! Impossible, there is not a single tree around!_" he thought, trying to free himself.

He had once again underestimated the powers of the Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage.

The flying insects disappeared in the same manner they originally came out.

"You idiots!" he shouted, turning to his still minions, "What are standing there?! I cannot deal with them on my own!"

The Naga and the Undead moved to his aid. The Night Elf approached the Blood Mage, who was watching the Nerubian's fruitless attempts of regaining freedom and admiring the trap, and handed him his sword.

"Never do that again," he threw him a look of anger.

"Very well, but we now must keep distance from them." Kael'Thas rushed into the opposite direction; his comrade followed his example.

When the first set of malicious creatures were by side of their commander, a ghoul starting to use his claws to tear the roots a huge pillar of fire engulfed them and rose to the sky.

The Naga warlord and the others untouched stopped in their track and looked at the pyre that had consumed their leader and companions. On the opposite side waited the Archdruid and the Blood Mage.

When the Blood Elf's fiery spell timed out both side got the chance to see the result. The snow had melted under the great heat and instead of the enemy units ashes and burnt bones lay scattered on the grey, rocky ground.

Yet one remained standing. The flames left free the dreaded King of Azjol'Nerub, who had been caught in the pyre's epicenter. Marks of the fire's influence were now seen on his hard shell, but other than that, no damage had been brought to him.

"You thought your spell could hurt me?" he spoke.

One thing was certain—the King of Azjol'Nerub was an adversary to the most powerful.

"No, Anub'arak," a smile spread across the Blood Elf's face as he sent him another fireball.

Another pillar of fire consumed the Crypt Lord as well as those Undead that ended up within the boundaries of the new conflagration.

But this time the commander was prepared. He emerged out of the infernal flames, on the side of his targets.

"There will not be a third time!" he proclaimed and charged.

"I will take him on," Kael'Thas addressed his companion without looking at him, "try to hold off his lackeys." Anub'arak was in charge of a search party, so perhaps there were not that many of them as he first made himself believe there were in the very beginning.

If he had had enough power he would have summoned a Phoenix and simply burned the Naga and lesser Undead to cinders. But he had not regained enough power since the last summoning, so there were only two of them. He did not know whether what would happen next, in a way, he even felt that they had already lost, but they would not give up. Sword in hand, he darted towards the Nerubian King.

The Crypt Lord's paws went down on him but were caught by the blade. A pity the Nerubian's shell did not let Flamestrike slice them off.

"Believe me, your crude skills of a swordsman will not save you, Prince," Anub'arak attacked once more but got blocked again, "Such a shame, I was thinking about bringing you to Lord Illidan in chains, but it seems that I will only have your broken body to present."

"Don't feel sorry, Crypt Lord, you did the best you could," replied the Blood Mage in a teasing tone.

The Elf concentrated on his foe as they exchanged blows; he paid no attention to all that was taking place around them. He could hear Malfurion shouting something in anger—definitely—to his own foes but he could not tell what. The Undead commander seemed almost in vulnerable, but he surely he had a weakness. And he saw it when his opponent was prepared to strike again—a crack in his natural armor right in the middle of his chest—one of the results of the repetitive of his infernal fire spell. It was big enough to be struck by the pointy edge of the blade. Still, the Crypt Lord was a tough opponent, and even if he was not aware of the malfunction in his shell, it would still be a hard target to hit.

They continued to fight. Not much time passed—a mere couple of minutes.

He attacked next, and this time it was the Crypt Lord to block it. Kael'Thas was ready for another blow when agonizing pain took over his leg. Gathering his balance and agility, he met the attempted strike with the sword. He looked down and was able to understand what happened. A beetle the size of a rat had bitten it, another summonable insect just like the swarm earlier on, had given aid to its master. The Blood Mage suspected that its aim was to make him lose balance. He had not thought of it; his task suddenly became harder. He neutralized the beetle by putting it into an ethereal stasis like he had done to the Frost wyrm, but it was only a temporary solution.

Yet it seemed that day fate itself intervened to help the Prince of Quel'Thalas. A miracle happened.

Everybody—Abub'arak and Kael'Thas along Malfurion, the Naga and Undead—heard numerous arrows being shot, and a voice, familiar to two of them, proclaimed: "For Elune!"

"What?!" the Crypt Lord, who knew what it meant and that it was not supposed to sound there, hissed.

Surprised, he instinctively turned to the direction from whence the noises came. Yet he unwillingly exposed his vulnerability to his enemy. The blade found its aim and sank in the undead commander's chest.

Meeting his demise for the second time, Anub'arak, the King of Azjol'Nerub simply whispered: "More Night Elves…"


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

It was over. The combined search party of the Naga and the Scourge had perished defeated and was left behind. The same fate had befallen their head, the King of Azjol-Nerub, the Crypt Lord Anub'arak—he was not destined to return triumphant to his citadel. He would not give the order to go after Kael'Thas' people; he would not let his superiors know about the Archdruid's escape; he would not present the Prince of the Blood Elves in chains before his master and accuse the Blood Mage of treason in his presence. None of that would happen. The Crypt Lord would lie in the middle of the frozen wastelands of Northrend, hopefully forever...or until he would once again hear the dark call of the Lich King. Anub'arak's demise left the garrisons of the Illidari leaderless, and in the emerging anarchy nobody would follow them.

Yet it was neither the Blood Mage's sword skills nor the Archdruid's powers that had been the ultimate factor in vanquishing Illidan's minions. Their aid, a true gift of fate, was. They had been in the right place in the right time, noticing from the distance the pillars of fire that Kael'Thas had used on the Crypt Lord and his henchmen. A squad of Night Elves led by Tyrande Whisperwind herself, somebody the Blood Mage fought side-by-side with on one occasion.

The Prince looked to his right. The Priestess of the Moon rode her nightsaber, the winds playing with her long aquamarine hair. Behind her sat the Archdruid. Kael'Thas himself was riding beside them, on a nightsaber shared with a Night Elf huntress.

As the Blood Mage found out immediately after the end of the battle, Malfurion had left behind in Ashenvale, deciding that going on his own would have been better. But for a person as strong in spirit as Tyrande these words were merely a signal to wait, and weeks later, tired of waiting, she organized her own expedition. Kael'Thas wondered whether the Archdruid was glad that she had disobeyed him.

They had to get to the coast where the Night Elves had left a vessel. Malfurion had told his mate about his twin's journey to Kalimbdor, and the Kaldorei were intending to follow Illidan in his footsteps. Kael was sure that they knew what they were doing, although what method they were to use was a mystery to him—as experience with Malfurion had shown simply talking to Illidan was not a solution to the problem. Yet the Blood Mage was troubled—he could not understand what role was his to play in the incoming events.

Was that role his to play? His primary allegiance was to his people. Yes, he had was the one who had orchestrated Malfurion's escape, but it was a way of making up for helping to bring about the events taking place right before their eyes. On a moral level he did not consider himself a part of what was to happen between the Night Elves and the Illidari. When he for the very first time decided to leave Illidan's service, he wanted to break everything that once united them. He indeed craved to hear about Illidan's failure, but he did not actually wish to see it.

What would happen if he went with the Night Elves and a showdown took place? He would have to face his old colleague, Kel'Thuzad, and Lady Vashj, who just like Malfurion and Tyrande had fought by his side. But worst of all he would once again in counter Illidan Stormrage, the master Kael'Thas swore allegiance to on that fateful day after he, betrayed by the Alliance commander Garithos and misguided by the Naga, helped the serpentine creatures pull him out of the clutches of Maiev Shadowsong.

"_I should follow my people back to the Eastern Kingdoms,"_ the thought sounded in his head and returned like an echo.

The place was in a lot of chaos with the Undead still occupying his homeland, and he would be needed there. But on the other hand, if Illidan got what he wanted and found out about his schemes, he and his faction would come to take revenge on the Blood Elves for their betrayal.

His flow of thoughts was interrupted by his memories of the battle for the Frozen Throne and the image of somebody he had almost forgotten in the turmoil of the latest events.

Arthas Menethil; what had happened to him if the Orcs were in possession of the cursed sword? Was he their prisoner? Was he dead? If he was still alive was he on? But most of all…what would happen if the two meet each other once again, no matter what side their would be? The Blood Mage was afraid that blinded by his whirling emotions he would simply jump at his hated enemy and strangle him in front of everybody with his bare hands.

Perhaps it was a reason not to go there? On the other hand, perhaps it was a reason?

Arthas had destroyed his homeland and he had the blood of many High Elves on his hands as well as the blood of countless others. Nothing was forgiven and no one was forgotten! He needed to pay for it regardless of the explanations he could provide or fake! And there was only one way the former Crown Prince of Lordaeron could pay for the blood of others…with his own blood. This, in turn, led to another potential, problematic situation.

Why was everything so complex?!

If he would take revenge in this gruesome way, what would the others think of him? A merciless and blood-thirsty barbarian? What if he would not? Then what would the Blood Elves think about him sparing the person who was the source of their misery? What a hard choice to make it was!

"_It's all Illidan's fault! He should have finished the Death Knight off back when he lay dying at the footsteps of the Icecrown,"_ he tried finding the best scenario.

But if that had happened, Frostmourne, his cure, would have been in his possession when he was struck by his illness and…

It seemed there would have been a lot of trouble in any circumstances.

Pressed by it all, he leaned closer to his companion, burying his face in her hair.

"Prince Kael'Thas…" the Huntress whispered, surprised and confused by the Blood Elf's signs of "attention".

The Prince immediately pulled away, cursing himself in his mind. He refused to look at the Night Elves to his side or behind them, wanting not to find out whether they were looking at them.

Humiliation grabbed him by the shoulders. How did his female companion interpret his behavior? What did the other Night Elves think about it if they saw it?

"Sorry, my fault…" he quickly gave a basic explanation and then wished he had not opened his mouth at all—such an exchuse left a lot of room for suspicions.

"We must stop for a short break," sounded Tyrande's proud voice as she halted her mount, "We still have a long way to go, and those of us on foot need at least some rest."

"I do not think this is the best idea," objected Kael'Thas, "the Crypt Lord had definitely sent other search parties."

"I second it," the Archdruid backed him, "me and my party were ambushed the last time we stopped for a rest."

"Nonsense, the coast is in about an entire day's movement from here." she disagreed, "We did not encounter any groups on our way, only random Undead. Moreover, weren't you, Prince, the one who had defeated their leader? It would be a bit harder for them without him."

She dismounted; Kael'Thas wondered whether this act was symbolic, a wordless confirmation of the decision made by this strong-willed person. Tyrande Whisperwind was definitely in charge.

"As soon as we reach Kalimbdor, we will need to send somebody to Ashenvale for back-up," Tyrande let the Prince on the plan, later during the break, "If we are to confront him…"

"We don't have to send anybody I will use the Emerald Dream to contact Fandral, so he would make some preparations, as soon as we leave this continent. This place is so twisted that my more complex spells went out of control on two occasions." Malfurion provided an alternative.

Tyrande silently nodded and looked into the endless, grey sky.

"I cannot believe he is so far lost," she sighed.

"Illidan has chosen his path. The only way we can now help him is by stopping him from obtaining his full power."

Caught in this dialog on a personal topic, the Blood Mage could not feel himself a part of the discussion. Perhaps it would be better if he distanced himself.

"Prince Kael, what about you? You have not told me what you were planning to do after freeing me," the Archdruid addressed him.

"I…"

It was a time to choose, and they did have a boat, so he would not need to find one himself.

"I need to get out of this accursed place myself, but I do not know whether I should go to my people or travel to the Barrens with you. I will make the final decision on the way to Kalimbdor."

——————————

If on the face of Azeroth there was a sorcerer, shaman, mage, or warlock that could be considered the direct opposite of Kael'Thas, then he was undoubtedly Kel'Thuzad. He knew what his mission was; he knew what role he played in it, and he played it without any questions. He would have chosen it even if he had been offered several. At the same time, he was ready to accept another with the same share enthusiasm. He had always been on the spearhead of the activities of the Scourge, no matter whether the ruler was the former Orc shaman Ner'zhul or Illidan Stormrage, the living ruler of the Undead.

He silently floated to his destination through the flora of the oasis—one of the few places in the area, the only type of surroundings, where they could remain unnoticed in day—they were not were not seeking refuge from the heat amidst the green and shades. The Lich King had sent him further instruction along with several more helpers, and it was Kel'Thuzad's objective was to do further planning and make sure that everything was to go as intended. He was now on his way to see how successfully the Naga were following his, Kel'Thuzad's, orders.

The tropical trees and bushes made way to a small clearing in the middle of the oasis with a spring. He could see the results. There were several prisoners, Orcs, tied to the nearest trees, and there were their captors, the serpentine Naga, trying to overcome the melting heat in the waters of the spring, in their element. Their tridents had been carefully laid on the bank.

"You dumb Naga, get out of the water!" he proclaimed in anger at the absence of discipline among the snake-like mutants, "this is not the time to take a bath!"

The Naga obeyed their superior.

"Now what do we have here?" he asked, moving nearer to the captives. They had no weapons, no special clothing that distinguished them as warriors, no battle scars on them.

"Peons," he said, stopping next to the one further from the spring, "but I only need one. Murder the other two!"

One of the Naga separated from his comrades and ran his trident through the chest of the one to the Lich's left. Then he proceeded to carry out the death sentence that the dark spellcaster issued several moments before.

"What do you want?!" howled the frightened peon.

"I suppose I can let you in on the plan," Kel'Thuzad laughed, "I need several agents inside your capital to do a couple of…favors…for my master. Fighters are supposed to be the core, but I a peon is required as a messenger that would keep me in touch with the others."

The Lich looked the captive in the eyes and found what he expected—fear consuming him like fire consumed wood.

"I feel you tremble, but do not worry. You will not betray your precious Horde," Kel'Thuzad turned to the side, "you can come out now!"

That moment the peon saw a ghostly figure emerge out of the shadows. That visit surprised even the Naga. Her face bore the marks of grief, and she looked like as if she was a female Human, High Elf, or Night Elf. The peon had heard about these spirits. They…

"See?" the Lich turned to him once more, "you are merely a vessel," he added calmly as though mentioning a well-known but unimportant thing.

Later that day Kel'Thuzad was approached by a group of Orc grunts. He expected that to happen, for he knew that inside those fighters now dwelled the ghostly aids his master had sent to help, who had accomplished their first task.

"You have done well," the Lich congratulated.

It was time to begin the second part.

———————————

His opponent made another step back, but it meant nothing. The human knew he was undefeatable—he was a part of this realm, while the one he was fighting was a new resident of the place nobody in the whole world would have ever wished to pay a shortest visit to. Ironically, Arthas Menethil, in the past trained to be a Paladin, taught to follow the Holy Light, had ended up there.

Arthas threw himself at his archenemy, the axe ready to meet with the blade once more. Yes, he fought his archenemy, or at least somebody or something that had taken the look of the grey-haired Death Knight with blue-green eyes full of poison. Arthas Menethil, the former Crown Prince of Lordaeron was his own greatest enemy, the one who defiled everything the young man cherished, drowning it in mud, killed those he loved, and, in conclusion, dragged him to the plane of existence where Arthas, as a Paladin, was not suppose to arrive in the afterlife. But it was impossible to avoid what had already happened. If he was stuck here, he would not bow his head before fate, the same fate that had played with him like with some amusing but cheap toy. He would fight his archenemy, even if indeed was merely a shadow of the past, for he had a chance. He was ready to battle for all eternity rather than be haunted by him. He lost his honor and good name in life; at least the latter returned to him in death.

He had pushed out the Death Knight—if his opponent was really one—out of the house and was clashing with him in the street of the town, although it was hard to call a dwelling where both the victims and the villains were mere shadows. It was more like a decoration that had an aim to give a false impression that something nightmarish was simply creepy, so the realization itself would add extra suffering to the fool who had treated an this fog of infernal deception as the realities of the physical world.

How long ago did his tired spirit leave Azeroth? Days, weeks, maybe even years before? He could not tell; he could not even prove that time existed in this realm. He had not seen the sun, or what seemed to be the sun, set or even begin descending the horizon even though it felt as though it was time for it.

His enemy's runeblade flashed in the air, splitting the wooden hilt of the axe Arthas held in two. He was now weaponless. What would be his rival's next move? For that matter, what was his initial intention? It was impossible to kill somebody who was already dead, unless, of course, he was Undead like a ghoul or a zombie, but this was not the case. Torture him with the replica of the same cursed sword he used to kill and mutilate so many. That seemed to be the most obvious tool of punishment.

"It was clever of you to try and turn this into a joust," the grey-haired twin spoke in his dry voice.

Their eyes met, and Arthas failed to see any emotions in his gaze, not even anger or hatred. Only emptiness reached out to him.

"But this is not a tournament, Prince Arthas. This is eternal damnation." He continued, now it was his turn to step forward.

Arthas, in contrast, was the one retreating, feeling a twitch of fear, something unfamiliar to the other.

"And yours is only beginning!" proclaiming it, he darted towards the Prince.

Arthas did not jump aside—he wanted, but was simply unable. The next thing he felt was an armored boot striking him in the chest, a hit so strong that it knocked him off his feet. He expected to feel the hard ground beneath him, to feel the pain rush through his body with the collision, but it did not happen.

Instead, he continued to fall. All what he saw just several moments ago disappeared as he plunged into the abyss. Only shades danced before his eyes now. He was able to get a glance of what was waiting for him far below. He saw fires with no beginning and no end; entire lakes had been filled with them, and the tentacles of conflagrations of a height he had never imagined opened their infernal embrace to him. The descriptions that were given by Uther and the other Paladins of the Silver Hand during his training were now coming to life.

He stretched his hands, trying to find something to grab hold to in order to somehow avoid the fiery pit. Alas, it was to no avail.

"Do not blame anybody," he heard the dry voice again, now from somewhere above, "you have only yourself to blame!"

Arthas admitted that those words were true, but, strangely, they made him yield, not panic. Some of the initial fear went away. He was ready to bear eternal suffering when he first understood where he was; he was once again ready to accept his punishment.


	20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Orgrimmar was a young urban center, founded soon after the joint victory of the Horde, Alliance, and the Night Elves over the demonic forces of the Burning Legion. Just over a year had passed since the moment the first stone was laid, yet the new capital had experienced unimaginable progress in construction. Though it was still incomplete, the building took a quicker pace than the restoration of a number of towns and cities in the Eastern Kingdoms after the Second War.

In the already finished districts of the center life went like it could have gone in a Human town: children played in the streets, merchants sold their goods, peons made improvements in their dwellings. The Orcs had gone accustomed to the heat central to the local climate—their race had already had to adjust to the drastic changes in their surroundings, not to mention the surroundings themselves, several times in the last couple of decades.

Guards kept watch on the high walls, ready to raise alarm the moment they would see an approaching band of vile Centaurs or a force of troops of Kul Tiras, if the leftovers, of course, still had the attempt an act so foolish after their recent defeat.

There were no potential enemies on the ground in sight. The same applied to the blue, cloudless sky; neither the gryphons of the Alliance nor the preying Harpies flew in it. It felt almost tranquil, with full serenity broken by a single figure in the blue heights. It soared above them in its proud loneliness, seemingly ignorant of the tiny, from its perspective, creatures of the land. Those on the walls who did notice it paid little attention to the giant blue serpent with wings the color of a rainbow that from a distance gave the impression of being a giant butterfly. For them, it was merely a rare creature of the Barrens with its infinity of species, which had yet not earned bad reputation among the Orc colonists.

Yet, relatively new to this area, the Orcs had no time to fully explore the incarnations of the local fauna, for if they had done so, they would have known that the lonely being was native not to the dry lands, but to the waters. The deeps of the Great Sea served as its primary home, and only following someone's call did these marvels of nature visit the inland. Its bright colors hid deception. For several millennia these creatures had been in the servitude of those who had once put the world on a brink of destruction, and, in a twist of fate which could almost be interpreted as punishment, disappeared beneath the waves that had sunken vast lands in consequence of their misdeeds.

The unsuspecting city down bellow, most of its habitants at least, did not suspect that inside their hometown at that moment lay the feather with which a new chapter of history would soon be written, and the potential authors had already gotten the inks and were on they way…

In the times of calm that preceded a possible but avoidable storm, one had to think twice before leaving the confines of his or her settlement in order to bring home some water from the nearest oasis.

Terror in his eyes, the young Orc boy had to watch his grandfather receiving blows to his face and stomach from a pair of hideous snakemen that assaulted them when the Orcs went into one to get a pot of water for home. He wanted to help his grandfather even though he knew he had no chance against the malevolent creatures. Crying, he silently cursed himself for being a mere child, not a warrior, for otherwise, he would have guided his axes through the chests of those beasts. In contrast to his wish, he had been pinned to a tropical tree by a hunched undead creature with sharp fangs and held by the throat.

"Why are you doing this?!" he cried, addressing the one who had given the monstrous orders.

The main culprit turned to the boy. He looked like a being that had probably come to the material world from an even more horrible nightmare: a floating skeleton in grim-style clothes. Next to him was his companion, another humanoid serpentine creature, in appearance mostly similar to the attackers, but with living snakes instead of hair that made her look more dreadful. At the same time, even pierced by terror, the boy could spot something different in those features—that was a woman. Unlike her skeletal colleague, who seemed to enjoy what he saw, she watched it with a dull expression, as if she simply cared not for everything that took place before her eyes.

The Undead ordered the violence to stop, and his minions did so. Immediately, the boy looked at his grandfather. The old Orc lay on the ground stained with his own blood. His features had been changed by the brutal pummeling. Rolling his head left and right, he whispered gibberish, so it was hard to say whether his mind remained with him.

"Poor child," the villain said and hid his literally bony hands behind him, "you two have dropped in on a meeting held by the members of the two of the most vicious factions that Azeroth has ever witnessed—the Scourge and the Naga. This is already enough to seal your doom," he flew to him.

"Aside from that, we were discussing something very important, so we cannot afford any trespassers finding out bits of what they are not supposed to know."

The empty sockets met the child's eyes, easily reading fear in them like glyphs on a scroll.

"Indeed, child," after whispering that, he turned to the laying body and was next to it several moments later. He looked at the elderly as if trying to assess the consequences of the beating. Then he looked at the broken pot the unfortunate intended to use for the storage of water; the bits rested nearby.

"Perhaps you want to ease your grandfather's suffering?" asked the Lich, engaging the child in a round of mind games, playing which brought the fallen mage sadistic delight.

More child tears followed the dark question.

"Pull the old one up!" he ordered.

The pair of Naga grabbed the Orc by the shoulders. He could barely stand, so depended on the Naga like on columns.

"Still uncertain?" the skeletal mage turned to the boy one more time and upon not receiving the answered gathered magic in his hand in the form of a frost bolt.

"Then see how I do it!" he proclaimed, and the frost bolt went through the victim—the old one merely gasped before his body hung lifelessly.

"Grandfather! No!" the boy cried.

"Do not worry, child," Kel'Thuzad flew aside, "he will be rejoining us shortly."

The supposedly dead body began beating in convulsions, transforming in front of everyone there. Very soon it became almost undistinguishable from the creature that held the grandchild. The snakemen let go of his shoulders, but the being could now stand on its own. It looked around, making sounds that resembled both hisses and roars before concentrating its attention on the boy. As if following a silent command, the other ghoul released the little Orc and crept to his master. The boy felt as though a noose had been lifted of his neck; he was now free. Shaking, he did not use the moment as a chance to run, but continued looking at his grandfather.

"Grandfather," he said, completely frightened and confused, trembling and not knowing what to do next.

What had been the grandfather still looked at his once grandchild, yet he saw him not as his descendant but as something that would smooth his suddenly emerged hunger. Accompanied by Kel'Thuzad's vile laughter, it threw itself at the boy, and everybody present witnessed the mad feast.

——————

Few had fallen like Arthas had…

...and fall he continued as he plunged into the fiery abyss. The giant pillars of flame bellow seemed nearer and nearer with each passing moment, yet still remained distant at the same time. He could not tell for how long he had been falling, just as he had felt to estimate the duration of all his activities in this realm or at its gates.

He was now able feel the horrible heat, worse than that he had gone through in the Barrens. Sweat covered his body and his armor consumed enough of the warmth radiated by the fires, now baking him. The man closed his eyes, expecting that his hair would be caught on fire that would already consume his body by the time he joined the other damned down bellow.

Once again, his mood changed. He decided to yield and accept his punishment some little—as it felt at least,—time before. Now he trembled. The prospect of being tormented for all eternity amidst the likes of Blackmoore and Lord Perenolde brought him emotions impossible to characterize by any living man. His soul wanted to scream, but understood how useless it really was there...

He anticipated the end of his fall in a lake of molten fire, yet hit something hard. Surprise did not grip him; he had already grown accustomed to all sorts of awkwardness during his residence _there_. Another metamorphosis took place, and whatever material he had landed on became soft, feeling beneath him like…sheets. He was afraid to open his eyes; Arthas could already foresee that he would wake up in his alleged bed in a copy of the royal palace in the capital of Lordaeron and get attacked by the zombified versions of his father, Uther, and the maids. If not that, then definitely something similar.

Still he could not always lie with his eyes closed, even though in this particular case it would have probably been the best idea. Deep inside opposing this move, the Prince opened his eyes. No, it was not his room in the palace—the style was completely different, completely foreign, although familiar. He had dwelled in a similar room, still not the same one, when he was under honorary arrest in Orgrimar. So this was the third stage out of an infinite number.

The whole place was soaked with a sharp herbal smell. He looked around and saw the source of it—dry herbs of sorts he had never encountered or paid no attention before had been hung all over the room. That smell alone was enough to make him want to throw up. Aside from him and, of course the herbs, there was nobody inside.

Arthas stood up. Only a fool could not spot the pattern. The first time he mysteriously came to his senses in the woods with nobody nearby, and now the same scenario was supposed to be repeated in some Orc barracks or something. Anger filled his mind as it had done many times in his life. He suddenly felt a wild urge to bash everything in sight, yet he decided to save his energies on something he believed was more useful.

Opening the oak door, the former Paladin stormed out.

"Where are you?!" he shouted, walking fast through the empty halls, "I know you are here! I know where _here_ is!"

Common sense driven out, the Prince, now in the iron grip of paranoia, chased his invisible adversaries across the place, expecting to come face-to-face with their local head, incarnated in the form of his Death Knight self or someone else.

He came across a first shadow—a Troll witch doctor went to his direction, carrying a cup of some potion. Amazed, the healer stopped in his pace, looking at the Human.

"I have intention of wasting time on you," Arthas hissed and, grabbing the Troll by his tunic, threw him against the stone floor like a toy.

The Human proceeded without looking back.

"Show yourself! I know your game!" he continued his maddened quest.

The Warchief of the Horde, or what posed as him, in the company of a peon appeared on his way, as if some force, light or dark, decided to grant him his wish.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Warchief asked.

"Meaning?" Arthas whispered, no able to talk normally for the moment, "has there ever been any meaning here?!" he now shouted.

"I am afraid you are making no sense," came a remark.

The Human replied with short and throaty laughter, similar to a madman's.

"Actually, I am," he hissed, making a step further, "my mind had been blind for a long time. I acknowledge that," he stepped forward again, "but once you understand this, you cannot return to the same condition time and time again," he made two additional steps.

"Then what would you like?"

"Most of all, I would like to get out of this place."

"I am afraid this is impossible at this moment. You are clearly not in control of your actions, so present danger to all the people outside."

Arthas clenched his teeth. The last statement of the Warchief infected him with even more rage. So he was still a danger to the people "outside"? He gave his opponent a burning glance. In contrast to the previous time, Arthas did not even have a knife, though it made no difference when fighting shadows, but these words could not be left unpunished.

He threw himself at the Orc, intending knock him off his feet with his mass and then press an armored boot to his throat. Still, the Warchief was prepared for such a stunt—he pulled his left hand forward and a chain of lightning escaped from his palm. Striking the Human, it sent him several feet into the opposite direction. Yet Arthas Menethil had gone through worse things; he stood up, although the recent hit made it hard to keep balance. He made several steps forward in the pace of a drunken peasant.

"Do not trying anything you would later regret," warned the Warchief, ready for any action from him.

"And what are you going to do, kill me?" Arthas laughed in his madness.

Then he felt something strike him in the back that brought him down to his knees. Was it the Death Coil spell Death Knights practiced? He turned his head back to find out what it was and then, eyes wide, gazed into above as though he expected salvation to come down to him.

"Light have mercy on me," he said, joining the fingers on his right hand in a voice of a lost soul.

"Light have mercy on me," he continued to repeat it like a preacher during a service at the cathedral.

"Light have mercy on me…" he fell on his side, unconscious.

—————

That night many in the Barrens saw a rare astronomical phenomenon. In the dark skies lights of all the colors of nature united in a dance: scarlet, orange, light-blue, purple…

The Harpies observed it from their nests, Centaurs from their camps, Quilboars from their settlements. The Orcs, along with the Humans of Tiragarde Keep saw it on the walls of their outposts. None of them had ever seen such a show taking place in the area, although wonders similar to that could sometimes be seen on the heavens in other places. It was as magnificent as it was dreadful.

Some saw it as an omen, good or dark. Under its sway, ritual sacrifice was carried out that night in the villages of the Quilboars that night.

That night Illidan Stormrage returned to Kalimdor…


	21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Many of those who saw could not tear their eyes from the magnificent show of the skies. The numerous colors gave the impression of dancing. The tones of red moved next to the purple clouds, in a way, slowly spinning like a vase on a potter's work circle. Then they got pierced by a bolt which almost resembled lightning in many features except the color, for its color was green. Then some other shade would emerge from them—yellow, or blue, or grey. Many other marvels would illuminate the heavens that night, giving the thought that the endless sky burned with magical fires.

It was undoubtedly an omen, but how could it be correctly interpreted? Did it mean that the Horde had left its dark times and could now live in peace? Did it mean that the native races of the Barrens were destined to push the new colonists, whether the green-skinned Orcs or the armor-clad Humans, back from whence they came? Perhaps backup was on its way from the Eastern Kingdom to the survivors of Daelin Proudmoore's failed expedition, so that they could put an end to the Horde menace together, and end the old tale of Alliance-Horde confrontations. Perhaps it meant something else? In Orgrimmar, Tiragarde Keep, and any native settlement wise men and "smart guys" alike gave their own interpretations and shared their speculations with their comrades.

As the skies above burned, a lonely peon was on his way to the new capital of the Horde. No other Orc walked beside him; he led a kodo by the reins, a large grey beast of the steppes that the Orcs had domesticated, following the example set by their Tauren allies many years before, and used to transport weapons and supplies. The peon used it for the same purpose; the kodo pulled a cart full with goods. Having avoided meeting Centaurs or Quilboars, the peon and his pet reached the city gates.

"Who goes here?" asked one of the guards that sentinelled the entrance. Though the guards had also gazed on the celestial miracle, it was not enough for them to forget their duties.

"Lok-tar, warriors," he greeted them, "a lonely peon has arrived to the fine city of Orgrimmar bringing goods to sell on the market," he threw his hand in the direction of the cart.

The guard came closer to the cart—it was fully packed with local fruit, no free place left.

"This country is mostly barren. So the tropical fruit that can be gathered in the few oases are the grain of these lands, so there will always be a need in them on the market," the potential trader explained.

"Fresh, I see," said the guard, admiring the condition of the crop.

"Indeed they are. I only finished gathering them today, and it had taken me several days to collect what you see before your eyes. Unfortunately, those accursed Harpy wenches are always on their hunt at day, and captured one from my village ad he was on his trek to this city, so I have to travel at night."

"Ok, you may move on," said the guard.

"Thank you," the peon bowed his head, "but perhaps the warriors before me are interested in buying anything I offer?" he smiled.

"No thanks, it is too luxurious for us," followed a reply.

"As you wish," said the peon and entered the city, his pet following him.

They made their way amidst the wooden huts, mostly small and sometimes bigger, that housed the common Orc families. The kodo seldom made noises similar to those made by the mounts of the Humans, horses. Yet the big animal his was not his only companion…

The peon heard a quiet laugh—there were residents on the street—men, women, and children looking at the illuminated heavens with awe—yet not close to him.

In the shadows of a pass between the walls of two huts where nobody would notice, the other companion once again revealed himself.

"Stop for a moment," the voice ordered.

The peon did so unquestionably. Out of the thin night air appeared a Lich that was the first in hierarchy among his kind. Though he had mastered necromancy, experience had shown time and time again that one needed to get some magical items from the Goblins…like those that grant the ability to turn invisible for a while. Getting into the city turned out to be easier than he had originally thought.

Kel'Thuzad looked at the night sky, which could have seemed mad to some, once again. He, like many others, had his own view on it.

"Fate is with us," he addressed his companion, the same peon who had been possessed by a banshee under his order back at an oasis after being abducted by the Naga.

"Indeed, Lord Kel'Thuzad," the reply came, lacking all possible emotions.

Symbols were symbols, but entering the city was just the first task.

"Forward," whispered the dark sorcerer to the possessed minion before once again disappearing in the shadows, "we must reach your hut," he added.

There he would find shelter for the time being. The guards had foolishly believed them.

All the lines the peon had said had originally been made up by the Lich. Especially he liked the statement "the grain of these lands."

True, they had to act fast in this case, but, nevertheless, their methods of achieving their goal were diverse. Like a skilled fisherman, the Illidari elite were always ready to strike with a harpoon, yet at the same time throwing a net into the water a bit further could help trap the salmon if it escapes the first strike or even avoiding the unnecessary action. Moreover, their creativity and ingenuity was endless. They would not just throw one net, but put a number of them of different kinds in different places, and in the end they would get what they came for.

_Tropical fruit are the grain of these barren lands,_ he laughed.

Well, it was grain that brought the Plague to Lordaeron…

——————

The Warchief of the Horde watched the astronomical spectacle as well. He stood at the balcony of Grommash Hold. The air, as it had always been at night in the area, was cool, a sharp contrast to its day-time counterpart. Yet Thrall felt not it, so consumed he was by the thoughts, the dance of which in his head would have rivaled those of the sky fires. If he did not think about one problematic topic, another one sprang to his mind. Some were linked to each other like in marriage; some were not, yet still shared a type of bond.

Now this added itself to their company. The far seer did not need to communicate with the spirits to understand what the blaze before his eyes stood for. It was an omen, but an omen to who or what? Did it symbolize some event that would shape the future of many Orcs or somebody else? Perhaps he was simply overestimating the darker features of this phenomenon? Maybe that night, in Orgrimmar or one of the Orc villages, a child was or was about to be born; a child that was fated to become a great warrior or a powerful skilled shaman? He hoped the latter was the case—there were and had been enough things to worry about. At the same time, the hypothetical newborn might lead the Horde back to its dark ways…

Thrall gripped the handles of the balcony. More thoughts like that, and he would take a boat and sail the seas of madness along with his awkward guest, the "Prophet's emissary." From the beginning, he wanted to find out more about the old man's motives and ways of action, but that "emissary" managed to present a story that even if it was indeed true, seemed warped. Like illusions of a lunatic…

Perhaps the Prophet never visited the young Human, and the knight had simply imaged the meeting with him. That meant that in his madness he had simply made his way across the vast landscapes of Kalimdor just to raise a storm in a teacup. Thrall did have arguments to back his claim. Moreover, maybe in reality that the one named Illidan never even assumed the mantle of the Lich King, and the Human, after all that had happened to him created his own world in the caverns of his mind, where he was the hero and the fate of all rested on his shoulders? Now this felt more realistic than it had done before. Surely, the Prophet, who in times of a dark crisis had come to the Warchief, would have done the same if an imminent threat emerged again.

Still, perhaps he had really to spoken…but to someone else. This speculation made him unwillingly step back, so unexpected it was. Had somebody—or something—intentionally led the Human astray? Was that a work of a shapeshifter? Medivh could turn into a crow, but some could take the guise of both the crow and the Prophet…Demons could shapeshift; that was not even under debate. Dragons had the same ability. Was that the work of a Blue, Black, or who-knows-what sort of Dragon? If there was another force was at play here, whose side was it on? What aim were they trying to achieve? Everything was getting thicker and thicker with no light coming through the mist, and the Warchief once more began to attempt to assess the true amount of his guest's sanity. He wanted to talk to the Human again, but after what happened to him during the battle with the Quilboars that would be unlikely…

Making a deep breath, the Orc left the balcony, his hands behind his back. If he was incapable of talking to the man, he would chat with another person about everything that had happened. He threw a final look outside, where the distant fires bothered not to even think of fading away. Thrall smirked; he hoped the person he was soon about to visit also watched those illuminations.

—————————

With time, the fires of the heavens faded into nothing, and the night gave way to sunlight. A new day began, and the burning heat, as if made by celestial flames but late, came down on the harsh land. Again the area would go in its ordinary ways, mostly. Still the nighttime miracle would not pass the Barrens and Durotar.

Like birds of prey the Harpies circled around them, releasing their loud, specific shrieks that were a bane for the ears of many races. Yet not everyone was irritated by those sounds. From the above the half-bird women sent deadly bolts to strike the intruders.

A bow played its melody, and one of the Harpies fell to the ground, its chest speared by an arrow. Immediately, Lady Vashj withdrew another one and gazed above to choose the next target. The night before Illidan came to Kalimdor with backup, and a new tactic was of operation was now needed; in the mountainous part of Durotar, south from Orgrimmar they set up an encampment, yet unfortunately—it remained to be seen whose misfortune it really was—their camp was founded near the nests of one of the Harpy groups. It did not take the flying hybrids with bright plumage to attack the newcomers, and carry several Mur'gul slaves of the Naga to their nests as a meal. Their raids were constant, though they had suffered losses themselves, so the Sea Witch led a squad to eradicate the nuisance at its source.

The Harpies bolted into different directions, each choosing a victim. Vashj fired another arrow with the hope of taking down their flame-feathered matriarch, the biggest in the flock. The Harpy dashed aside in time, and the arrow continued its fly up the endless sky.

"Accursed Highborne," the matriarch cried and threw another bolt at her.

Vashj followed her adversary's example and simply moved out of the bolt's way; it hit the fertile ground. The Sea Witch smiled at the irony—according to one of the legends, the female hybrids were once Night Elves who were cursed for betraying Queen Azshara. That would mean they and the Naga were natural enemies. Yet the winged fury failed to understand was that over the years the Highborne had made new allies. In this mission the Sea Witch and Naga Siren were accompanied by the reptilian snap dragons and the undead crypt fiends. Together they would show the feathered freaks their superiority.

One of the Harpies threw herself at the snap dragon, ready tear him apart with her claws, but received a splash of acid-poison right in her face as she neared the creature. She fell on her back, and the reptilian jumped at her, sinking its teeth into her throat. The undead spiders knew useful tricks as well; four winged creatures were brought to the ground by the nets they were capable of making like ordinary arachnids made web. This made the easiest of targets for the Illidari squad, and they found their dooms either by paws of the crypt fiends or wrath of the Naga. The last servant of the matriarch was virtually torn apart by the dark magic of the Siren.

With her flock annihilated, the matriarch unleashed a spell that shattered the ability of her foes to concentrate, yet she did not use this as an opportunity to fight—all the advantages were on the enemy's side—but to flee, abandoning the nest and eggs. Chance, however, played its unique role; as she started to retreat, an arrow struck her in the back, sending the matriarch to the ground with an agonizing cry.

"Raze the nest!" the Sea Witch ordered.

At her command, three snap dragons, hissing, ran to the giant nests, eager to feast on the eggs.

Triumphantly, Vashj crawled to her defeated foe. The Harpy was able to roll her head slightly, and the Naga was met by her dying gaze.

"The loyal ones will always be superior to your kind," the Sea Witch said and the snakes that replaced her hair ten thousand years before hissed in unison in agreement..

—————————

He had grown accustomed to this new way of life. He had spent countless hours in this condition, plunged in a self-induced coma so to avoid the pain that tormented his body and soul in the material world. He could even consider it his own Emerald Dream, even though he was actually locked in the deeps of his own mind—a bizarre characteristic for the many, yet his scale of understanding of the complicated was above any other living being. Time and time again he would return to this stasis, sailing the dark spaces, sometimes encountering shadows of the past and present. Or perhaps everything was vice versa? He could not tell.

At some point later—whether minutes or hours, mattered not—he was approached by three figures at the same time. Quite a rare event, but sometimes he had indeed been visited by several at once. They stood motionless like guards before a palace. Blind on Azeroth, he could see when here. All three strongly resembled him…

One of the visitors had the built and features of an ordinary Night Elf, a black bandana hid his eyes and body art on him served as marks of distinction. That was Illidan the Night Elf.

The one next to him looked exactly like him in the material world. Unlike the previous one, this version had hooves for feet, giant leathery wings attached to his back and horns on his head. That was Illidan the Half-Demon.

The third one…He was like a reflection in the mirror to his predecessor in looks, yet still different in sense. One could feel that difference just be looking at them both. That was Illidan the Lich King.

Illidan Stormrage was not a person—he was a phenomenon. What many thought as one was in reality three personas always in the presence of each other. That was one of the symbolic of his glory! All three had their distinctions, but he had created a bond between them like a skilled artisan. Who else could accomplish a feat like this?!

The trio was Illidan Stormrage, and Illidan Stormrage was that trio. That is why he suffered for the last weeks. There was an easier way of overcoming the illness that had befallen him. In a dark ritual, he could tear his chest open and rip his own heart out, becoming Undead and getting the chance to use his newly-gotten necromantic powers to full extent. Yet, if he did this, he would destroy Illidan the Night Elf. That, in turn, would destroy the existing balance within him, not to mention a part of himself, and he could not predict the result…and, moreover, he simply did not want that. That is why he needed to consume the speck of power that still remained in the accursed runeblade.

Due to his illness he had temporary lost the ability to telepathically link his consciousness to his undead minions, so to see and here via some of them what was far from him. Yet even in his condition, he was still able to communicate with one, though it did cause him problems, and he could feel him reaching his thoughts out to his leader.

"Even the heavens above acknowledge the greatness of Illidan Stormrage!" he heard his voice proclaim.

The trio disappeared—a replacement had been found.

"I thank you for your compliment, Lord Kel'Thuzad," Illidan replied calmly, "it is a pity we were unable to meet when I returned to Kalimdor."

"But the skies let me know of your upcoming arrival,"

"Have you succeeded in getting into the city?" the leader of the Illidari asked.

"Indeed. I am currently within the city. At this moment everything goes the way it was planned. At the moment, I am in the hut of the possessed peon, and those who live in the city are unaware of my presence."

"So there were no setbacks?"

"No. When is everything expected to be ready outside?" Kel'Thuzad asked. After all, he was responsible for only one part.

"It is not yet the time," followed the sharp reply, "the area is secured; you and Lady Vashj have made sure of this. Just in case, any flying device that leaves the city will be brought down when it loses the city out of sight and "checked". Any peculiar caravan leaving the city will get a similar treatment. The rest will come to its places within days."

The Demon Hunter could not wait to finally be over with this nonsense.

"We only need to wait a couple of more days," he repeated, now calmly, "I suppose you do remember why exactly you are inside?"

"When am I to act?"

"For now, make the preparations. I will contact you when the time comes, although you will undoubtedly notice the first hint. This is all for now."

"Yes, Lord Illidan," said the Lich before the link between the two melted.

Once again, Illidan was left alone in complete darkness. Yet he did not care—he had grown accustomed to this way of life…


	22. Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

Arthas already knew what to expect next. Once again he would open his eyes and see that the new surroundings differed from the previous ones; another decoration to soften the sight and hide the real essence of the place. Yet he had simply ceased to care; when he gets up even the shadows that surround him will pray to their lords—whoever those were—such a problem he will be for them. He had nothing to lose—he had already lost everything he ever had, including his life—and a bit of revenge, no matter how weird and, in a way, irrational could not be bad for him.

He opened his eyes, immediately catching the ceiling with his gaze. A strange feeling visited him; he had already been here. The disgusting smell of herbs that almost made him fall in bed ill last time was still flying across the, although weaker, and that gave a strong hint that he was in the same room as in the previous instance. Why had the settings not changed since then? Perhaps everything in this place followed a script like a tragedy in a theatre, and the performance was supposed to continue until the final act? Quite possible, and he, after all, was best to play the leading role in a play of that genre.

His senses completely coming back to him, he felt something tightening around his arms. He redirected his gaze and saw that they were tied by a rope. Also, his breast armor had disappeared, and only a brown short now covered his upper torso. He raised an eyebrow. Had he worn that shirt beneath his dark armor or was it a new article? His memory could have reminded a cloth with numerous holes, so many were the gaps in it.

Nevertheless, those divergences were not present last time. Or were they? Perhaps, blinded by his rage, the former Prince of Lordaeron had failed to notice? Everything carried on being strange. Slowly he sat up, light pain biting his shoulders.

"You're up," he heard a sudden voice behind his back that made his eyes wide from surprise.

Turning backwards, he saw an Orc peon, dressed in ordinary red-brown-white working clothes sitting on a stool a bit further from the bed's head. His facial expression was remarkably simple, as if he was just a kind-hearted creature who was just following an order, not concerned with everything happening around. Could that really be a hellish shadow?

"I have no idea," the Human said; he did not lie, for he knew not.

"Ok, then." The peon nodded, "I must now go and summon the Warchief. He wanted to speak to you when you get up."

Arthas wondered whether the peon next to him was the same one who accompanied the "Warchief" in the previous encounter. He was unable to tell; all Orc peons, like grunts, for that matter, looked the same to him wherever he saw them.

"The Warchief wants to see me?" he reasked.

"Yes,"

That was something new as well. Since when did the locals warn they would see him, unless…

"Then go," said the Human.

"Will you behave nicely when I am not here?" the peon asked, his tone and mimics remaining the same.

"Have you seen my hands?" Arthas raised his tied hands, "I won't even be able to throw anything."

"Then wait here," the Orc said and left the room.

The human once again looked at the rope and clenched his teeth. In the worst case, he would simply eat if necessary to get the "Warchief", but on the other hand…it might have been his key. Now he was capable of assessing the situation more sanely. Perhaps he was indeed alive, and merely failed to understand it the first time, when he was embraced by paranoid anger after all he had experienced. But what had happened to him? What and where were the green forest, the assaulted village, and the fiery pits he had visited? Those had been as real as the present environment. Again, he underwent a feeling that he was being taken for an idiot by some forces, and all before him was a façade. But he would wait; he would listen to the explanation…if given, that is.

He did not know how much time had passed since the peon left when the door of the room opened. He expected a grunt, a peon, or a witch doctor to come in first, yet he who entered was the Warchief himself. Like a mouse, then the peon slipped into the room immediately after. He carried a cup incrusted with only primitive ornament, not gold or decorative stones, in contrast to the aristocratic goblets of Lordaeron. He put it on a small round oak table beside the bed and once again disappeared in the doorway. The human felt draught in his throat—that cup and whatever was reminded him the meaning of thirst. Unfortunately, with his hands tied he found no way of taking the vessel and emptying it.

"Greetings, human, I hope you are feeling better than _last time_," the way Thrall pronounced the last two words, made Arthas think that he once again made a fool of himself before the Orcs.

"Fine, I suppose," he needed to give an answer, any answer, and he did, "but my memory fails me in some places."

The second part was ultimately true. He remembered the Warchief throwing him off his feet with lightning spell, but the finishing blow was still in the mist, tough it definitely was not the Orc.

"How did I end up here?" he asked, the question having double meaning. Now would be the time for revelation…

"Do you remember the battle with the Quilboars?"

"Yes."

Thrall told him how the Quilboar shaman, after the human had thwarted his plans and was about to strike him down cast a spell on him that made him lose consciousness and began messing with his mind. As for the shaman, avoiding demise by the man's blade, he found it from the claws and fangs of Thrall's wolf apparitions. The human also found out that he had been out for quite a while…

"Magic of the Quilboars is quite primitive, but some of its adepts do achieve greater power, and the one we dealt with belonged to that caste," Thrall explained, "and only because our shamans possess the ability to control the elements, including water, were we able to save you from death by thirst. Still, if you had not regained your senses, you would have died from lack of food when the time came."

The Warchief's words, unlike a lot of other things recently, did make sense. And that was important. Deep inside himself Arthas thanked the Holy Light for sparing his life. Understanding that he was alive filled him with a type of joy that he had not experienced in a long time. He recalled in his mind how he had wanted to impale himself on the runeblade, an idea that had been his companion throughout his journey across the Barrens, yet witnessing what might have easily been the afterlife, he now recognized the absurdity of those thoughts. True, the shadows of what he had done did not leave him; at any moment he could relive the scene in the throne room in the capital or the death of Uther. Moreover, he was aware that they would haunt him until his last day, his last hour, his last breath. Perhaps even after. Hard and tormenting it was, yet if his dream was a reflection of the afterlife, he would be avoiding for as much time as he could, although he did realize that crawling out of the pits of damnation was an impossible feat for the former Prince of Lordaeron. He would suffer for his past sins when the time comes, and that time would approach at some point, but he cherished the present moment.

"By the way, how did you and your shamans were able to return my mind back to this plane?" Arthas asked.

"It was, to an extent, similar to freeing my fallen comrade Grom Hellscream from demonic possession a year ago," Thrall responded, his tone changing to slightly sadder one, as he mourned his friend.

Arthas could not fail to raise an eyebrow. He had heard this name before, the name of the leader of the Orcs that had not been gathered in camps. The hunt for him and his people had lasted for years and affected a number of regiments of the military of Lordaeron.

_Great to know that I now share similarities even with him_, thought the ex-Prince with a suitable amount of sarcasm. Who would he remind next?

"I and my shamans were unable to do it on our own, so we invited extra help, help from spellcasters of different kinds, like the Troll witch doctors. You met one of them when you were chasing invisible adversaries in your confused paranoia," the final statement was spoken in a different style, as if addressed to misbehaving child.

"Is he fine now?" though he was not known for Trolls, he had to admit he had been too hard on the spellcaster.

"Currently, he is fine, although he did experience headaches after your treatment."

"I apologize for this."

"Well, I am sure he understands that you were not in control of your actions."

Arthas turned his gaze from the Orc to his tied arms.

"Seems like you have taken precautions this time," he hummed.

"Indeed, this time we needed to be sure you would have been less of a threat to everybody here if you had once again been consumed by madness."

"Will you untie this then?" he once again looked at the Warchief.

The big Orc looked at the rope and then at the human. Arthas could read doubt on his features.

"Will you behave normally?" the Warchief asked, again speaking to the human almost like to a naughty kid.

"I don't see a reason for me to go on a rampage this moment," the other replied. He clenched his teeth—how he despised this type a treatment.

"Fine," to Arthas' surprise Thrall pulled out a dagger out of it seemed thin air (or possibly some storage in his armor). Several more moments the severed rope fell on the sheets beneath him.

"But just in case, do remember that I am ready for anything you might try," the Orc added.

"Oh, great," Arthas rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps you would like to drink some water?" the Orc looked at the vessel.

"Thanks," the human said, and immediately grabbed the cup, emptying it within racing moments.

"Now what?" he asked, putting the pottery back.

"Pardon, I don't understand what you are implying."

"What will happen to me now?"

"You will remain here at Gromash Hold for a while. You have brought some riddles with you, and through you we might get some answers—?"

"Do you think that I know a lot myself?" interrupted the Prince.

"Maybe not; perhaps your importance, as the importance of the developments you have described, has been overestimated."

Silence triumphed in the room for a short while after the Orc had spoken. The human did not reply; once more he lacked words and understanding of the true importance of the Battle for the Frozen Throne and its aftermath.

"Anyway," spoke Thrall, "for now you are to stay in this building. Although you will now be transferred to another room," he looked around, "this one still has the revolting smell of medical herbs we unsuccessfully used to wake you up. Expect me and several others to visit you in the next couple of days," he walked to the doorway and waved his hand in a gesture of summoning someone from outside.

The familiar peon entered, and the Warchief told him something in his mother tongue.

"This one will be attending you," Thrall explained, "I must go now. And human, if you wish to have a bath or shave, you may."

That was how Arthas spent the day. He rediscovered how pleasantly warm water felt, for so long had he not submerged in it. Later he stood in front of a mirror, in the new room, recognizing the familiar features of the past Crown Prince of Lordaeron in it.

Evening fell on the new land of the Orcs. In slow steps the human walked to the window. He could see the workshops and dwellings in their new colorings under the patronage of the evening dark.

He sighed. Back only two years ago he was able to watch, from the royal palace of Lordaeron, how twilight descended on the capital of the great human kingdom. Now if he had once again returned to the empty halls of the palace, the only things he would have observed falling in the dark were lifeless ruins. The human city had already fallen into darkness, a type of darkness so unlike that of the evening and night, a type of darkness which would not disappear with the coming of sunrise, but linger in its special and fearful qualities throughout daytime and until it would return into the embrace of twilight again.

And it was his fault.

Arthas hit the wall with his fist as hard as he could in an attempt to shake the common yet hated thought out of his head. It worked, and now he had to turn his attention to the pain in his hand. He cursed through gritted teeth, petting it with his other palm. Perhaps he ought to try a better method next time.

He continued doing the same for the next couple of minutes. Curse Mal'ganis, curse Frostmourne, curse Illidan, and curse, last but not least, that wall. He was not even supposed to be here! His rightful place was somewhere else: possibly in Lordaeron, possibly in a grave. Again grim thoughts returned. He wanted to think about something lighter and better, and recalled how the peon servant had said something about the skies burning with colorful fires the night he was out, this time taken down by the good guys. That was something new: maybe a natural phenomenon or maybe an omen. If the latter…he shook his head. Could he think about something other than armageddons, whether past or incoming!

As he was trying to sort out the mess that had been baked in his mind in the last couple of weeks, even when he had been lying in a comma, he heard a knock in the door.

"Come in!" he proclaimed loudly, still looking in the window, his hand now relatively fine.

The door opened and a familiar voice sounded.

"Good evening," said the peon. Arthas could not tell whether the Orc had heard his voice or just entered because Thrall had given him such permission.

"Yes?" the human asked, not bothering to turn to the servant. He was not in the mood in seeing the kind yet equally annoying Orc,

"There's one who wants to speak to you," said the Orc.

Arthas slightly nodded his head in disapproval, but he did understand that it was not for him to decide whether he would be visited or not. By the introduction of the peon, he could already tell that was not the Warchief. Probably one of the Horde's elite warlords, like the one who was present in the throne room when he was first brought before Thrall. Nazgrel was his name if the man was not mistaking.

"He can come in," Arthas said.

He heard the peon's retreating footsteps in conjunction with somebody's incoming ones. The door closed gently.

_Now prepare for an entire evening of interrogation_, he thought.

"Arthas," sounded the new voice, much softer than he expected, feminine…

His eyes went wide, for a moment he even thought he was still _there._

Not turning around was impossible. He turned and saw the newcomer. An Orc did not stand at the entrance—a human did, not male but female. Amidst the rough surroundings she looked so fragile, like peace in Azeroth. Golden locks lay on her shoulders; light-blue eyes were bound to him. He recognized that voice, he recognized that colorful robe, he recognized the figure…Another shadow from the past like the Lich, the Dark Ranger, and the Death Knight earlier or a far less literally one? If it had resembled somebody else, he would have done something stupid or aggressive. In this case, he was more careful.

"Jaina?" the name escaped him as he made several steps closer, slowly, slowly.

Not tearing her sight from him, she stepped back, the marks of many emotions were seen on her face, including confusion. He was aware that he did bring fear to anybody who knew who he really was. He stopped in his track; he knew it was the best thing to do.

"Is that really you or an image in my madness?" he asked, their eyes locked.

"It is me, Arthas," she nodded, a sad smile on her lips and tears on her eyes.

He made another step forward; this time she remained in her place. He moved again, and seconds later he was standing beside her.

"Is that really you?" unable to come up with a different set of words she merely repeated the part of his statement.

He nodded. A shadow or not, in the tempest of his emotions he wrapped his hands around her, pressing her to him and burying his face in the blond hair. He felt the warmth of her body, something that lacked in the dream-coma he had had. Her hand caressed his back He felt her shaking slightly and noticed that his shirt was becoming damp where her face was hidden. The one before him had to be real.

"It's alright, Jaina, everything will be fine," he tried calming her down, at the same time acknowledging that there could only be a few things more further from the truth than his last statement. His voice was trembling itself.

She gently pulled away from him, wiping off the tears from her face. She was lovely in sadness just as in cheer.

"How did you end up here?" he asked her. That was indeed a question that escaped him when he first saw her.

"I was summoned by Thrall, but the tale is long," she replied.

And it was the right time to share memories with him.

She told him that she had led the refugees from Lordaeron to the other continent, the alliance with the Horde and the battle at Mount Hiyal, the crusade of her father and his demise.

"And when it seemed that everything was over, I was summoned here to help lift the spell of somebody who might be important. We had already performed a similar ritual on Grom Hellscream" she carried on, "These are times of distrust between the two nations, but I still came. Thrall has told me the version of events you had presented him with, but I could not even think that Death Knight was you."

"Could we avoid the word _Death Knight_," he felt an urge to comment, "does Thrall know my real identity?"

"No, I was taken aback when I saw you once again, and he noticed my reaction. Still, I did not reveal who you are."

Arthas could only nod—fate was not kind to her as well.

Comforting her, he put his hand around her shoulders and led her to the window. He knew not why, he simply did it. They could have been together, but he had cut their relationship, like somebody could cut a knot with a sword or, worse, a cursed runeblade, believing that their commitments lied elsewhere. Yet their commitments had sent them down path unimaginable.

"Arthas, what will happen now?" she finally asked.

"I am afraid it is not for us to decide," he said and gazed into the distance as if he tried to spot the landscapes of his homeland a world away.

But even the new Master of the Frozen Throne knew not the answer.


	23. Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

"One does not even need to have telepathic abilities to know what is going to happen next," the deep voice of Illidan Stormrage attracted the attention of all those nearby.

Yet it was only for a split second, and everybody returned to their duties. The new Naga outpost built in the mountainous areas to the south of Orgrimmar was full of notion. Illidan Stormrage, the Betrayer, the leader of the Illidari, the Lord of Outland, the Lich King, felt all the fuss as he strolled through it. Alongside him crawled like a real serpent his most loyal companion, the Sea Witch Lady Vashj.

Yet he had one more escort—his pain; the pain brought to him by what he loved most—his power. Indeed, love did hurt, and, contrary to some sayings, he could not get used to it. Yet he had once again learned to walk solidly, and few, if somebody, could spot the traces of agony in his pace. Yet as proud as his figure might have seemed, it did cost a lot. His body in good condition, he kept the cries of his mind and spirit deep inside himself. He even had no need in clenching his teeth under its bursts—he merely let it have full authority over him, for in the material world all tiny battles with it were a complete waist of time and beyond his rank. He just needed to wait for salvation. The pain was not tearing him apart, and it was not burning him; a completely different expression should have been applied, yet not a single language on Azeroth could describe it.

A shade fell on the duo from far above and the sound of wings clamping came. The female Naga looked in that direction. A colorful yet deadly Couatl flew above them. Her gaze returned to the land. The Myrmidon and Siren practiced their skills. A Mur'gul slave crept past them into the direction of the Altar of the Deeps, carrying wood.

"The Orcs simply will not act otherwise," he continued. A smile appeared on his face, but not that of joy, for he no longer could experience this feeling. He smiled just because he did so.

Some thought he was mad, yet the mad could not understand the minds of others as the Lord of Outland did. Vashj and Kel'Thuzad had done the task well, and several Orc grunts, the guards of the country, had been possessed by the banshee before his arrival. He had planned everything perfectly and set up a base: the sea-themed Naga structures now decorated this dry piece of the Barrens. And that was not all to it; the Undead were not present with them—they were awaiting their hour. Virtually, the Illidari were in control of the area, and all those they did not want to continue on their paths were taken off them. Moreover, they had infiltrated the capital of the Orcs itself! Those Orcs who had been possessed would still play the role assigned to them until the final act.

"But can they be outmaneuvered so easily?" asked the Naga, still unsure about some parts of their strategy.

Illidan stopped in his pace. Slowly, he ducked. Scraping the surface of the ground, he clawed sand in his fist, raising his hand.

"According to our…sources, the Orcs had a war with the Alliance recently that did cut their numbers, the land itself is ravaged, so our plan should go even smoother."

The Naga watched as the yellow specks escaped his clenched fist, shining like gold in the sun.

"Lady Vashj," he smiled again, "it is located at the main route that connects their city to the rest of the Barrens."

"Yes," she nodded; after all she was among those who had done the research.

"In my vision, I noticed that the city is backed by high and non-climbable cliffs, nobody could strike from that direction, and truly none will. That gives the city more sense of security. Yet everything depends on us." He turned into the direction of the city, "both those here and within the city. We are ready, and they do not know that we will strike in a completely different and unexpected manner."

He loosened his grip, and all the bits of sand trapped in it were carried away by the trembling winds into eternity and endless spaces.

—————

In the last couple of nights the land of Durotar had gone through several anomalies. First, two nights before, the dark heavens burned with multicolor, almost magical, fires. It did not take long for new surprises to be revealed. The climate of the region was dry and hot at day, but, in contrast, slightly chilly after dusk. The air typically remained in a condition of serenity, calmness its primary feature. Yet that night it was different; it blew, and blew quite strongly. A characteristic considered common in the Eastern Kingdoms and another case of misbalance of nature in the Barrens might have been seen as another omen. Yet, unlike the celestial flames, this left an unbothered effect, though noticed by the guards on duty on the high walls of Orgrimmar and those who for different reasons were outdoors.

An Orc grunt made his way through the unfilled streets of the capital of the Horde. Silently, he passed by the few civilians he encountered on his way. A helmet crowned his head, a travel bag across his shoulder, a battle axe hung behind his back—an ordinary representative of the Horde's most common unit from first sight. Yet more was hidden where eyes themselves could not look. Deeps inside him two entities dwelled; one in complete control of the other. The reigning one undead; the enslaved—that of the Orc himself. The Lich Kel'Thuzad, on behalf of the Master himself, had sent several of the banshees to find the vessels with which they would infiltrate the city. The present status showed that the mission was a complete success; four grunts and one peon among the "trophies". In company of the latter even the skeletal sorcerer came to the city. Now it was time for the others to do what they were expected to. Though their supreme leader was far every operation inside was conducted under the watchful eye of Kel'Thuzad.

And even now the Lich was with the possessed grunt…invisible to him like to all else.

He traveled forward, the wind blowing at the Orc. But he was not bothered, for the banshee deep inside his mind and soul was untouched by the element. He simply made his way down the literally dark path amidst the numerous huts of the peon, the proud architecture of Grommash Hold behind him—his objective was in another place. The wind howled louder as though irritated by his disinterest. Still he walked.

"This will be a fine location," he thought he heard the air itself speak.

He stopped. For a slight second the floating figure of Kel'Thuzad appeared before him, once again revealing himself to his companion, only to disappear in the shadows again.

The possessed Orc nodded and went closer to the wooden wall of the peon's hut. For some time he stood there in his loneliness, possibly even abandoned by the dark spellcaster. As he stood there, the Lich made a circle around the dwelling, making sure nobody was present on the street nearby from them. Upon the completion of it, he returned to his servant-slave.

"It is time to act," he said. The grunt carefully slid his bag from his shoulder, putting it on the ground.

Invisible to him, the Lich crossed his hands at what used to be his chest; it was the first time he experienced a feeling most close to nervousness in a long time. He had not expected all to happen this soon; he expected to spend a couple of more days in waiting, yet just several hours before he received a telepathic message from Illidan Stormrage. All their plans had all of a sudden changed; now they needed to act quicker.

_A change in circumstances. Everything is now to happen this morning._

The Night Elf's words were repeated over and over again in his mind. Illidan had explained what had made him change his mind all of a sudden: their Gargoyles had killed a Hyppogryph-riding Night Elf spy in the skies of the Barrens. That was unusual and unexpected. He had a bad feeling about this encounter, for the presence of a Night Elf so far from their homeland was meant more than a skirmish. Yet what pleasant to hear was that on the outside the Illidari were already almost prepared. As for him, he was ready from the first hours of his appearance in the city two mornings before.

The Orc opened the bag and pulled out a piece of wood, its head wrapped with a white cloth. His attention dedicated to possible sounds of footsteps or voices, the Lich materialized again, simply grabbing the object from the grunt's hand, disappearing again. He moved closer to the wall—logically, anybody passing near would consider it floating in mid-air…awkward…the least moderate of words. Next the possessed withdrew a small bottle, lamp oil the dark thick liquid inside, and opened it. Kel'Thuzad brought the object—the torch—closer to the other. Several drops fell on the clothed part—all the rest was spilled on the wall.

The wind howled like ghoul. Slightly amused by the comparison, the Lich thought what was happening at the Great Sea at those moments. After spending weeks in the company of the serpentine Naga, he—a great researcher by nature—had learned a few tips about their ways. A caste in their society, the Priestesses of the Storm or—as known to the races of land— Sea Witches could conjure up the mentioned phenomenon's of nature at seas…and it was from the direction of the seas, he believed, these winds were presently coming from. Though the city's location was not on the coast, some of the effects still reached the area. Seemed like Lady Vashj and whatever other Sea Witches in Illidan's servitude were doing the best they could to help bring about…a distraction. Indeed, their true tactic was hidden amidst several fake ones. Just as planned.

"Now be gone," Kel'Thuzad addressed the grunt, "the rest is up to me to handle."

The grunt got his bag and went on his way—where the Lich had specified in the very beginning. He waited until the Orc was out of sight. He looked at the skies; soon dawn would come. All was going as recently scheduled.

He quietly whispered an incantation, and the torch was lit by itself. He brought the newly lit object to the soak, oily part on the wall of the hut, transferring the flames to it. In moments the fire would spread on the whole structure and then, carried by the winds, to the neighboring ones, and so on, until it consumed the whole quarter. Fires would soon arise in several other spots across the city—all the possessed grunts were involved in this mission.

It would be interesting to find out where the Orcs were to find the water to vanquish the pyre. He also wondered—just out of curiosity— whether those sleeping inside the hut would awake in time to understand what was happening.

Let the winds do the rest of the job; it was time for him to go. Still he needed to get rid of the burning torch—floating a bit further he threw it on the low roof of one the neighboring huts; perhaps that would help a bit.

The Lich left the scene; it was time to get back to his main, his primary objective…The show was about to begin…

Kel'Thuzad was right; the flames spread their hands and gathered building after building in their embrace. Panic was triumphant on the now lively streets of Orgrimmar. The horns sounded across the city, in a sign of emergency. The long, loud sounds repeated time and time again. Yet there was more to those calls. The guards of the city on the walls so the pillars of smoke rising into the early morning, yet still darkened heavens; some were down bellow helping the civilians. Still, some, as expected to follow the order, kept watch of the outside. It was not hard for them to see a shadowy form moving closer by air, becoming bigger and bigger as it neared. It seemed unliving. It was unliving. It was a building that could have resembled a small castle in size.

Accompanying it was a number of smaller shapes. As they approached nearer it became evident that traveled through the air not by being pulled by some magical force, but using their wings. Very soon numerous figures began pouring in the flat area before the capital of the Horde. Those shapes were unmistakable.

The guards blew the horn again, yet with the chaos in the city its true meaning failed to reach those below. The flying citadel stopped, and the landscape beneath it changed within moments; the soil that had been infertile became dead. The winged familiars of the grim structure, Frost Wyrms at closer look, dashed forward, releasing their freezing vapor upon the city's guard towers.

——————

The great Couatl had become the messenger. Illidan sensed its approach, hearing the flapping of its leathery wings. Shortly after, one of the Naga Siren would interpret the winged serpent's information about Orgrimmar and share it with the leader. Lady Vashj was not with him this moment, still had not returned from the shore of the Great Sea, where she had aided Kel'Thuzad's team from a distance. And so the Siren did; the clashes between the Horde and the Illidari before the walls of the capital continued for hours while a part of the city was in flames. The half-demon could now grant full concentration to the execution of his primary tactic, in favor of which he had orchestrated not one but two distractions.

He stood on the top of rocky hill, his encampment near it. Beside him, four Naga summoners, the elite spellcasters of the serpentine creatures, had placed themselves in all four corners of space—north, south, east, west—and he heard their hissing voices pronouncing incantations in the language of the Naga. He had used the summoners to control the power of the Eye of Sargeras in an attempt to use it against Icecrown. With another important task to be completed, they were the best choice.

For several moments the consciousness of the Lord of Outland shifted from the rocky place, flying into the darkness of his mind where he met Kel'Thuzad. Just like the serpentine spellcasters, the Lich was to take part in this ritual as well, only from another location—from the besieged city itself.

"I am ready," sounded the deep voice of the skeletal sorcerer.

"Exellent!" the Dark Lord proclaimed, "soon the hours of my greatness will return!"

Then his spirit—that of the Night Elf, the half-demon, and the Lich King combined— reached out to the undead sorcerer. It felt as if he pulled his hand forward into the dark spaces, though he had no hand here. Slowly, he went through the darkness, or swam, or flew. Then…

"The link is established," both said in unison.

"Proceed with your task!" Illidan commanded before his essence once again returned to his body.

The pain he once more experienced as he came back to the material world brought him on his knees. His earlier stamina disappeared, and he hit the rock beneath with his fist.

Then he felt something scaly taking him by the elbow—the hand of the Siren that told him the news from Orgrimmar. With her aid he once again got to his feet. He felt a lot of things in that moment, and one was the presence of Kel'Thuzad in the back of his mind.

He roughly pulled his hand out of the palm of the Siren, and made a step to the summoners. His right hand flew up and energies of yellow color began dancing around his clawed fingers. He joined the ritual, and through the established link Kel'Thuzad did as well. Just like a Naga, he hissed from the pain, yet this time was able not to lose the ground beneath his feet. Combining his sorcery with that of the Naga beside him, and Kel'Thuzad in Orgrimmar, whose presence there was a necessity, he would achieve what he was impossible for him alone.

———————

Arthas was furious.

Once again those around him had shown their distrust of him. He was among the first in Grommash Hold to receive news about the attack of the undead, yet the only thing he could do was watch from the windows of the building on the pillars of smoke rising from the commoner sectors of the city and the distant figures of the Frost Wyrms far above in the morning heavens. The Scourge, or the Illidari—what was their name now—had come. His place should have been with Thrall and Jaina, on the walls of the city or fighting before it, yet by the personal order of the Warchief he had to stay at Grommash Hold. Even though he had acted sanely for the last two days, still the Orcs, and even worse, Jaina, considered him unpredictable. The fate of the city was about to be revealed, and he had only been given the role of a witness, not the main player, unlike previous events.

However, he was not the type to knee before somebody's demand. He would not stay under this honorary house arrest, whether the Warchief wanted it or not, and he would go to challenge his old foes again. That was the type of person he was; no matter if death or damnation awaited him outside—he had to be there.

He hung the broad Orc sword, the same one he wielded in the battle with the Quilboars in the canyon, on his side. The peon assigned to him by Thrall, had tried as he could to talk him out of him, yet his words touched nothing in the human. His death knight armor, damaged in his duel with Illidan, was nevertheless still useful, the crack amidst the dark plates almost unnoticeable.

"My Lord, please reconsider," said the peon, almost begging him.

Arthas nodded his head in disagreement. He admired the loyalty of the Orc before him to the Warchief as well as eagerness to follow the order to the end, he still thought it annoying.

"I must," the human replied, putting the dark cloak wearing which he had traveled across the known world, back on his shoulders.

"But the guards of Grommash Hold; how are you going to pass through them?" the peon asked.

"That would be my problem, not yours," Arthas replied calmly.

He was about to open the door and exit the room when he heard some sound coming out of the open window. It sounded like thunder, only less natural; surely related to magic.

Immedeately, he bolted to the window. The square before the hold had gone through some changes. A pink portal, so broad he had never imagined had opened in the middle of it.

"What is that?" asked the peon when he joined the human at the window.

Arthas did not react and felt something twitch inside him—he had a bad feeling about it. And when he saw the figure emerging from that portal he froze in shock. There was nothing unfamiliar in the twisted shape of Illidan Stormrage. The half-demon turned his head in all directions as if looking for somebody before his followers began joining him.

Dozens of creatures poured out of the portal, mostly Naga, but also several representatives of the undead—abominations, crypt fiends, and ghouls. He watched, still not moving as the newcomers clashed with the guards outside the hold. The leader of the Illidari himself plunged into the battle, and the first Horde grunt to fall fell by his blades.

Arthas suddenly regained his ability to walk and the same moment dashed out of the room, followed by the peon. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to do in order to defeat the invaders. Cleverly, had Illidan come up with this tactic. As most of the Orcs were busy fending off the main force or combating the fire, he and his squad would get what they needed.

But what were they after?

Arthas stopped mid-way.

Were they after him? There was no way they could have known he was in Orgrimmar, and if he had been so important, the half-demon would not have simply thrown him out of his grasp. Thrall's Doomhammer? Grom Hellscream's axe? He doubted; those were no use to Illidan. Maybe they were after Thrall for something? That was a possibility.

He continued his track and descended to the ground floor via stairway only to stop again next to one of the doors. Something struck him, a feeling that carried cold and malevolence with it. He did not just feel it but hear it like a melody. It was so familiar…

"What is behind this door?" Arthas asked, his voice raised.

"The armory," was a reply.

"Open it." The sound of battle could already be well heard where they stood—the guards had been pushed inside the hold by the advancing Illidari.

"But I don't have the keys."

Arthas was ready for this reply. He threw himself at the door, intending to bring it down with his weight. The first attempt was unsuccessful; he tried again, this time the desired result achieved. The next thing he realized was that he was lying on the fallen door. He jumped to his feet, avoiding the confused look of the peon, for his attention got possessed by what hung on the wall though it almost gave the impression of hanging in thin air. A skeletal ram head, engraved on the hilt stared at him in return. It did not whisper this time, and blue fires burned not in its mouth and sockets, yet the silent object had somehow regained a part of its past viciousness, something it had lacked during the trek across Kalimdor.

As though mesmerized, Arthas took it from its place. Still, the whispers did not sound.

Was Illidan after _it_? If so, then why and how did he find it? He shook his head; Illidan was the one who had returned the cursed runeblade to its wielder. But just in case he needed to be the owner of the blade, for it may have indeed be what the half-demon was after due to some twist of fate. He exited the storage.

"Now we must get out of here," he told the peon, his plans now completely different and, in a way, more logical. Though he still could not know what awaited him in the blazing city.

That moment a Naga Myrmidon appeared from behind the corner, an omen that part of the guards' defense had been broken and more would be here soon.

"A human?" it hissed, not recognizing the former commander of its enemies.

It attacked, and the snake-man's trident met with the runeblade. Yet the Highborne was not aware that his nemesis had another weapon with him, and the Orc blade slashed it across the chest. Now they definitely needed flee somewhere else.

"What a pathetic demise," said Illidan, releasing the throat of a grunt. The corpse fell to his feet.

He went forward, accompanied by the Naga; behind his force was left to finish the remnants of the obstacle. He walked the wide halls so familiar to him. Though he had no eyes, his senses guided him. Everything felt so familiar; exactly like in the vision that sparkled in his mind when he passed out for the first time. Finally, he reached his destination, coming across a little setback. He could sense that the door which was supposed to separate the runeblade from the rest of the world had been torn down. Neither could he feel the presence of Frostmourne.

"It is gone," said one of the Naga after peeking inside.

"Gone?!" sounded an irritated voice as Kel'Thuzad appeared from behind the corner.

In the anarchy that reigned in Orgrimmar that day instead of the Warchief, it had been easy for the Lich to reach the hold intact.

"It is not a big problem," Illidan spoke, "I sent a shade before myself inside this palace. Its objective was to remain in the presence of the sword, so it will not be a problem to track whoever has taken the blade."

The time that passed since he slay the Naga and before he ended up in the present location left nothing in the memory of Arthas. He stood now on the rooftop of Grommash Hold, the city burning around him. Further, there were the towers of Orgrimmar being attacked by the Frost Wyrms, from his expertise a great weapon against any artificial defense system. The air was soaked with the smell of smoke from the pyre that had consumed entire neighborhoods.

After finding out that Grommash Hold lacked any secret passageways, uncommon for royal residences, or the peon simply not telling him about them since he was too "unpredictable", the former Crown Prince ended up here. He could not answer why exactly he had chosen this out of all places, perhaps his mind had simply left him again? He could not find the peon beside him. Had the Orc finally abandoned him? He was once again all alone.

The dark material of the cloak hid the hilt of the runeblade from the eyes of others…but they could still search his corpse. He just wished he was mistaking and it was not the runeblade they were looking for but something else, hopefully inaccessible to them.

He had to agree the rooftop was not the best hiding place, and if Illidan and the Naga came up, the human's fate would be sealed.

He walked to the edge of the rooftop and stared into the distance, hoping Thrall and Jaina were alright. Then he heard a blast behind him. After he turned around, he noticed that the hatch that led to the roof was now in pieces, scattered

Then a figure flew out of the hole, landing on its two hooves. A moment later followed another familiar figure.

"Kel'Thuzad?" Arthas' eyes widened. The Lich was the last he expected to see among the Illidari.

"Greetings Lord Arthas," Kel'Thuzad said, now by the right of his new master.

"Nice to see you again Arthas," this time Illidan greeted, "and I believe you have something that belongs to me."

The human did not reply.

"The runeblade, Arthas," the Lord of Outland explained and made several steps forward.

Though Illidan's steps were solid, the Prince could read the clues of agony in his facial features. A possible explanation visited him.

"So the sword contains the leftovers of the old Lich King's power, and without it you are incomplete." Arthas said.

"You have figured it s quickly. I am impressed," the half-demon congratulated mockingly.

"And what makes you think I have it with me?"

"I sent a shade forward when I we attacked this palace, and it noticed what you did and followed you and the sword. It is still here as we speak," he added calmly.

Arthas silently cursed himself; once again he had been outmaneuvered by his foes. No matter what action he could take that moment, the outcome would still be more beneficial to Illidan.

"Now surrender Frostmourne to me!" Illidan proclaimed.

In his arrogance the half-demon brought his hand forward as though he expected that the hilt would be symbolically put into his hand.

Realizing he was still clutching the Orc sword in his hand, Arthas moved closer to his foe. His cloak and hair were trembling in the strong winds, yet he himself was firm.

"You will have to fight me in again Illidan if you want to retrieve the blade," he proudly pronounced—that was the only honorable choice he had.

Then laughter followed—Illidan's laughter. Arthas could not remember the demon-hunter laughing before like he could not compare it to anything.

"Arthas, you simply do not learn," Illidan once more spoke in his calm tone and made another step forward.

For a moment something made the human shake.

"When we dueled in Ashenvale we were evenly matched." the Lord of Outland continued, "At the footsteps of Icecrown our showdown ended with me emerging the victor even though Ner'zhul's might was with you and it took place on the Scourge's unholy ground. But now you are an ordinary human…and I…I am the Lich King!" he proclaimed, "And inside you still believe that you can still stand in my way?!

One more step followed.

"You are not prepared…" he shook his head in disagreement.

With a flap of his demonic wings he rose above Arthas and Kel'Thuzad. Suddenly, his form changed again, getting twisted even more. No it seemed as if Illidan was made out of darkness; the tattoos on his body and his empty eye sockets now burned with green flames.

"YOU ARE NOT PREPARED!" his voice was loud and hissing at the same time.

The nightmarish version of Illidan Stormrage, surely a spawn of the abyss, pulled its both hands forward, releasing what seemed an endless stream of darkness. The bolt reached its target, and the human was slammed against the stone of the rooftop.

Once more Arthas felt the embrace of darkness: burning, cold, and poisonous. But this Darkness did not corrupt; this Darkness destroyed…

—————

**Author's Note**: Hi, everyone.

Sorry it took long to update. You may probably think that several scenes are missing—like those related to Thrall and Jaina,— but I am planning to include them in the next chapter (hope to release it next Friday or Saturday). Anyway, this fic is several chapters away from completion; however, I have these plot bunnies for a possible sequel playing in my head.


	24. Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

A short painful moan escaped Arthas' lips as he turned his head slightly. The whole world, it seemed, was now spinning around him at an incredible rate. He felt all of his body burning under the destructive powers of the energies of darkness unleashed on him, and only his temple, where skin touched the cold stony surface of the rooftop, remained unaffected by it. The power of Illidan's spell had finally damaged his death knight armor beyond repair—he even had an impression that parts of it had even been eaten away by the dark vapor like by acid.

Illidan was now certainly more powerful than in their previous encounter and took down his adversary virtually without a fight. Arthas lost again.

The human passed out for a mere minute, finding peace in such a way for a short instance. By the time he returned to his senses, the half-demon's assault had ceased. He turned his head upward again, an action that took him a lot of strength. Immediately, two figures appeared before his gaze; two figures so twisted by magic and dark powers that not even the best specialist could say which one f them had been affected more: the one of whom only a skeleton, and only in part, remained, or his direct opposite, the one who had grown horns, hooves, and wings. At the moment the latter, to him at least, seemed to be the winner, extra honor provided to him by the artifact he held in his hands…the runeblade Frostmourne.

The Lord of Outland held the sword with both hands—the hilt gripped in his clawed fist and the tip of the resting on his left palm. So little time passed while he lay without his senses, and, nevertheless, one of the pair managed to take it away from him in those moments.

Illidan's face was turned to the sword almost as if he was looking at it and examining, which was impossible.

"Indeed," Illidan turned to the Lich, "that vision was true," he raised the blade in his right hand as if he attempted to cut the sky with it, or so thought by the Prince.

"So small the amount…almost unnoticeable…a speck…" he turned to his skeletal minion and then back to the blade, "no wonder I did not feel it back at Icecrown. It is impossible to notice it without examining it more thoroughly. I cannot believe that I once held it in my hand and simply gave it away. But now with it in my hand, I will be complete…" the Dark Lord's lips warped into a grin.

Then he hissed, and the sound speared the distance between him and the human, tormenting the latter's ears. Illidan bowed his head.

"Another strong outburst of pain, Lord Illidan?" sounded the voice of Kel'Thuzad.

"Yes," was the sharp reply, "they are always strong and they are constant," he put his left palm on his forehead, "but no matter, I only need to suffer for another few minutes. And then…Greatness…"

"I…pity you…Illidan," a trembling voice made an attempt to find the buried sensitive part of him.

The Demon Hunter and the Lich turned in that direction; two pairs of eyeless sockets now bound to the figure spread on the rooftop.

"Ah, Arthas," the half-demon lowered the sword, the tip of the blade now looking bellow, "I see you are planning on rejoining us for a while," he stepped closer, accompanied by the heavy sound of hooves knocking against the stone, "but please, let us avoid the use of expressions that have no meaning in this particular situation."

Like a familiar of a witch, Kel'Thuzad again joined his superior before the fallen human.

"No, Illidan, what I have just said is not a lie," trying to overcome his own pain and dizziness, the former Crown Prince of Lordaeron argued, "though we have only met on several occasions, I can already say a lot about your main specifics," he made a deep breath, his lungs almost empty.

"You speak about greatness, Illidan, but you do not even know what it really is. You might suck out that speck of the old Lich King's power that is still hidden in Frostmourne. You can drain it just as you have done with the Skull of Gul'Dan and the Helm of Ner'zhul. But this will not help you. Months, years, decades later you will get bored by it and once again go on a hunt for power and…_greatness_ because you cannot simply get enough of it. And you cannot get enough of it because you yourself do not know what it is and what its main features are."

"You are speaking nonsense," sounded his cold reply. The demonic form of the Stormrage twin now towered before the human.

The Prince coughed.

"All this time, since you teleported me from Icecrown after your victory, I have raised question concerning my fate. When I was traveling through the Barrens and when I was held under guard by the Orcs… these thoughts never left me," he continued, his tone now sharper, "I admit, my existence is meaningless, always was; fate has taught me. But your case is even worse. I at least understand it while you continue to drown in your arrogance and ignorance."

"Shut up, Arthas!" ordered the Demon Hunter. "You are the last person who should be teaching me rationality!"

He raised his free hand up, clenching it into a fist. Very soon a couple of drops of a dark substance—his blood—slid from his palm and colored the surface before his feet. Doubtful the half-demon even noticed it in his condition.

"You have no idea what I had to go through to get this blade back and all the torment I had to endure, and that I still endure I know what I am doing and why I am doing it. We are both to blame for my coming to this accursed part of the world. You were the one who brought the blade here, but in its foundations the fault is mine."

He slowly nodded his head.

"I chose the wrong way to destroy the previous Lich King. If back then I had chosen different way, a more risky one, I would have ended up not just owning his full power, but wielding a sword that was fueled by the souls of hundreds it had consumed. That would have been much glorious!"

The bandana-covered part of Illidan's face was locked with Arthas' eyes.

"But even if I had acted that way, there was still one soul I would have still given freedom in my hour of triumph—your soul, Arthas. I would have acted as I acted that day. That day I would have still given you the opportunity to live," he whispered, "I would you have still given you an opportunity to live…" he repeated.

"But I am not giving it to you now!" he proclaimed.

And the cold blade that Arthas had used to kill many in his days of a Death Knight sank in the stomach of its former wielder…

—————

Thrall had to act quickly. A battle raged all around him, the walls and gates of Orgrimmar standing witness to the clash. The Orcs and restless undead were locked in a fight, paving the dry ground beneath with the bodies of each other.

The Warchief brought the full might of his hammer on the head of one of the ghouls, literally mixing the creature with the dust of barren land. Sweat tickled down the forehead of the Far Seer; he was after all subject to the day heat that in alliance with the weight of his armor and intense rhyme of the battlefield's ode made him almost blaze.

He clutched the Doomhammer more tightly, ready to once again plunge himself into the midst of enemy units.

The front had moved backwards. No longer did the Scourge—or whatever other faction that had absorbed it—stood under the walls of the capital of the Horde. They were now fighting on the plane between the city and the enemy's necropolis. Yet victory was not close. The undead still sent new units into the heat of battle while the forces of the Orcs were limited. Thrall looked into the direction of the enemy's base. The grim center lifelessly hung in mid-air, radiating feelings that made even the Orc have goose bumps. However, before this architectural monstrosity was to be taken down, the Horde forces needed to make a hole in the encampment.

Thrall analyzed the defenses; several giant mounds made out of an unknown material, crowned on the top by a stylistic roof that resembled tentacles. Something purple—a giant crystal, perhaps—floated just above these "limbs", surrounded by a moving ghost-white phantomous substance which was its substitute for arrows, its substitute for stones. Just like the central structure of the encampment the Spirit Towers, as they were called, posed an unpleasant sight.

He watched as another party of undead left the base in order to join their comrades..

"Protect the catapults!" the Warchief shouted. The siege weapons were a necessity if they were smash the enemy's defenses.

The wolf he rode released a howl as it bolted into the direction of the incoming enemies. By his sides grunts, wolf riders, and Troll spear throwers charged. It was an Abomination that Thrall had to challenge first. The hulking figure, its name ultimately fitting its look, clumsily attempted to strike the Warchief with one of the butcher axes it wielded. Yet the giant hammer collided not with the battle instrument, but with the palm of the creature. The monster's nature helped the Warchief; having been sewn out of different bodies it, to an extent, still was a fragile product as some textiles might be. The might and rage of the hammer sent the severed palm, still clenching the axe, aside.

The creature moaned from anger or maybe even pain, prone to it though it was undead. Immediately Thrall pulled his free hand forward, sending a chain of lightning into the hole in the monster's stomach. The abomination leaned a bit and released sound that reminded a gulp; then…it exploded from within with blood, flesh, and inner organs flying into different directions.

Then he felt a force, almost like a cloth of darkness, throw him off his mount. Luckily for him his fall did not make him hit the ground with his head. The wolf crawled back to comfort its master. Thrall reacted quickly, first sitting up and then getting back to his feet. He recognized the master of the spell: a figure stood behind the place the destroyed abomination had taken. It was clad in skeletal armor, its face completely unseen under the horned helmet. A blade similar to that, only less terrifying, which was now kept in the armory inside Grommash Hold he held in his hand. No mistake it was a Death Knight. Thrall waved the wolf aside and raised his hammer in preparation for a duel. The Death Knight attacked first, now holding the blade with his both hands.

Death Knights were not ghouls, abominations, skeletons, or crypt fiends—they were enemies more powerful and skillful. However, the Warchief was superior to his foe; though the battle lasted longer than with the abomination, the victor who emerged was the same, and the broken body of the wielder of the runeblade fell to the ground. Yet before his life—or what substituted it—left the dark warrior, he pulled the blade up, and six shadowy figures, four Undead and two Orcs, surrounded the Warchief. Thrall understood who they represented: the souls of the recently fallen. It was time to fight again—he had done a lot that day. But the faithful pet came to the aid of its master, and a shadowy version of a ghoul found itself attacked by the wolf.

"Forgive me, warrior," Thrall said and leaped at the shadowy Orc.

Before the phantom could do anything, the Warchief's weapon hit it right in the face, and the shadow dissolved in thin air within a couple of moments. Then the Warchief began taking care off the other shadows and very soon there remained no evidence that they had ever been summoned.

Lacking enemies at the moment, Thrall granted his troops a look. He saw a grunt decapitating one of the ghouls. Further, more fighting carried on, for the undead were reluctant to give up ground. The edge of the front, however, once again moved forward.

Yet new threats emerged for the Orcs, for they were coming too close to the undead encampment. Thrall had to watch as one of his warriors fell to the ghostly beam unleashed from one of the dreadful towers. The same fate was met by another fighter that was locked in such a fierce fight with an abomination that he failed to notice the fate of his comrade. This forced the Horde to retreat to safer places, but one more fell before they were out of the range. Thrall himself was in danger, for he ignored his back as a necromancer, one of the Scourge resisting way behind, raised two skeletons of the fallen and telepathically sent them to strike the unsuspecting leader in the back.

However, the desperate attempt was thwarted on the earliest stage, for on every spell there had always been another one to counter. The pair of reanimated corpses was caught on magical fire that quickly and easily turned their bones into ashes. Even Thrall was unable not to sense it even though he was looking in another direction. This time he turned around. The one who aided him was now approaching his spot, not a male and not an Orc.

"Careful, Thrall, it almost seemed you are losing caution," she gave an advice in a merry tone.

"Perhaps I am," he nodded.

Thrall continued to look at her and had to admit that even in the middle of a battle she looked almost the same as in everyday life—a sharp contrast to the messy Warchief.

"So what's next?" Jaina aimed her gaze at the dark structures of the undead encampment.

"We crush their forces and destroy their base," he replied. At the same time he wondered whether the undead were here just because of their need to take down their enemies or had other motives.

Those who were responsible for the catapults did get the message that it was their time to act. Several stones crossed the distance between the siege weapons and the encampment via air striking the Spirit Towers. Minutes later another couple followed the same path and the deadly mounds got an extra decoration in the form of light ghostly fires.

As if a reply to the Horde, a giant winged form rose to the skies from somewhere behind the damaged towers, a Frost Wyrm. That was a unit Thrall had little wish to see. The undead dragons had earlier had a go on the defenses of Orgrimmar, playing their destructive role. Though a couple of them were left to lie before the walls of the stronghold, the others had retreated to the encampment's Boneyard to heal their wounds. It was now evident that they were about to return to join the fun. For a bit the monstrous form continued to float far above the earth, flapping its giant decayed (yet mighty) wings. After, it started its flight in the direction of the living, its intentions obvious. Then unexpected to everybody, both living and dead, a chain of lightning crossed the sky, striking the monstrosity in the skull. It was followed by another bolt that made the dragon hiss. The third lightning finished it and the falling Wyrm crashed into one of the Spirit Towers. The structure disappeared in a ghostly light, which then went up into the sky.

Both leaders stared at the scene amazed, the undead at the encampment taken aback as well. Soon enough the Far seer and the Mage heard wings flapping and noticed two shades falling on the ground near them, much smaller than a dragon's. Upon looking upwards they saw a pair of Hypogryphs, each carrying a Night Elf on its back.

"Are those—?" Thrall started. Surely the Night Elf pair had recognized them from above.

"Malfurion and Tyrande," Jaina confirmed.

Then above Orgrimmar another miracle occurred, and it seemed as if the Maelstrom itself began to churn in the heavens.

———————

"Curses," said Illidan, "this is more complex than I expected!"

The runeblade had turned out to be a bigger challenge. No just it did it lead him astray weeks before, but even now it was an obstacle on his way to achieving the full power of the Lich King. Failing to gain access to the small quantity of magic locked within the artifact, he needed to shatter the barriers. His impatience grew; he had easily dried out the lake, however, he had difficulties in parching the contents of a glass. The half-demon clenched his teeth in anger. That was going to take some time.

The scene could have made anybody watch in awe. Illidan stood on the rooftop of Grommash Hold, gripping the sword in his palm. His hand was stretched forward, the tip of the blade pointing at the sky. The twisted figure of the half-demon was surrounded by a blue glow, and one could even feel the wild, uncontrollable energies racing around and between both the sword and the wielder. As another sign of the forces that ran were being tempered with, an anomaly that resembled the Maelstrom opened in the sky when the Lord of Outland started the process. It spin like a wheel attracting the attention of everybody almost making them forget that a battle was raging outside the city in those moments while Orgrimmar itself was in flames. To some of the city dwellers who had witnessed the numerous anomalies it indicated that the end of days had finally arrived.

Kel'Thuzad floated to the edge of the main city structure's roof, unimpressed by all that happened around him. He looked down at the small square before Grommash Hold. Only bodies lay beneath. The portal that had brought Illidan and his squad to this place was now not present—the Naga summoners were unable to keep it open on their own. This had not been unexpected; those who were in Orgrimmar would leave easily when Illidan regained his power, and the alternative…there was no alternative!

"Grommash Hold is under the control of the Illidari," he heard a hissing voice behind his back.

Upon turning around he saw a big muscular Naga, surely one of the elite warriors of the species emerging on the roof to deliver the victorious news. He was not the first of his kind here, for several serpentine creatures that had accompanied the Demon Hunter and the Lich through the halls of the palace joined them after Arthas had been taken down.

"Exellent!" proclaimed Illidan though consumed by his task he, nevertheless, had not lost his ties with the surrounding reality, "Now order them to fortify in case the Horde suddenly attempts to retake it."

"Yes, My Lord," the Naga bowed his head and departed.

The Lich threw a glimpse at the nearest towers of Grommash Hold. It would be hard for the Horde to retake it when a counter-attack was expected.

Kel'Thuzad flew towards the body that lay several feet from Illidan's location. The vanquished human lay amidst blood—his blood—his head moving left and right, eyes closed. The Lich had a feeling that he was in the same condition after the loss at Icecrown. Kel'Thuzad heard him mumble something quietly, something that made no sense, for it sounded as if the words united and the letters switched places. The skeletal wondered how long the Prince would last. Surely not for long. How ironic it was that the one who killed him at Andorhal and resurrected him at the Sunwell was destined to die in his presence. With him the Lich had gone on a rampage across Dalaran in the hunt of the Book of Medivh and had summoned the Burning Legion into this world as he was defending him from the Alliance forces. Together they had done a lot of great and equally terrifying things. Now everything—for the Prince, of course—was ending, and it would be the Lich's joy to see the fool pass away in a puddle of his own blood.

"The Kaldorei!" the voice of a Naga Siren made him freeze in his place, for he knew what the term meant…

"Night Elves?" he whispered.

He was not very surprised; the news about a Night Elf spy annihilated earlier, as told by Illidan, was still fresh in his mind, but them appearing in Orgrimmar…

Illidan, however, ignored the shout or at least pretended that he did so.

Kel'Thuzad turned into the needed direction. Indeed, two Elves rode a pair of large bird-like feathered creatures. When they were close enough the Lich was able to notice their features. The one to the right was female with long aquamarine hair; nothing significant seemed in her. The left one was very familiar…and he should have been a prisoner at another, much colder part of the world.

"Your brother is here!" Kel'Thuzad addressed the Lord of Outland.

"What?!" Illidan was enraged, turning into the same direction though nothing else change in his actions, "Keep them occupied! This procedure is too delicate to be subjected to irregularities! I am close to finally drying this accursed artifact!"

And a number of magical bolts, green in color, flew to greet the incomers—Illidan always relied on magic, and little wonder was that the three Naga there with him were represented by Sirens. However, the Elves and the skills of their mounts could not be underestimated. The feathered creatures guided by their riders managed to avoid hits. The druid used bolts as well, yellow in color, to counter those conjured up by the serpentine spellcasters and make both disappear in the air. An arrow sent by the woman cut the air and sank in the chest of one of the Sirens, leaving the Naga without a spellcaster. The second one, however, got frozen in its track, falling on the rooftop, due to Kel'Thuzad's cold magic. Yet the Illidari were still doing their jobs, for the winged creatures above them crossed the air, drawing invisible lines, straight and broken, unable to reach the Lord of Outland.

"Illidan! Stop this madness!" the solid voice of the Archdruid reached the Demon Hunter.

The druid's original intention had been to come to Orgrimmar with reinforcements. He had tried to contact Fandral Stranghelm via the Emerald Dream several times on their way back to Kalimdor, but some new disturbance within the realm had led to failure… When they came back, there was only enough time to go personally, sending a spy-messenger forward. Illidan's flying units had secured the skies over the Barrens had taken their herald down, but the powers of nature that the druid commanded had helped to get the winged monstrosities out of their way with ease—that was what the Lord of Outland had not taken into account.

"Ah, brother, you have arrived just in time to see me gain my full powers," Illidan greeted him calmly, "but perhaps you could explain how you were able to free yourself and meet up with me at another part of the word? Perhaps this has something to do with Kael'Thas? And where is he?" his tone remained the same, Stop the fire!" he ordered his minions

"His duties lie with his people," Malfurion explained.

There was no need to lie about this. Unsure in the beginning, the Prince of the Blood Elves had made his choice and their ways had parted. Kael'Thas needed to make sure that everything was going well with his people, however, the druid did have a suspicion that deep within the Blood Mage wished not to face his old ally in battle. That was not cowardice—that was honor.

"Well then I suppose I will have to punish him and his people for their crime against me," Illidan told his brother in the same calm manner.

These words astonished the Archdruid; he expected a lot from his brother but…

"And you do know why they are guilty of _this crime_?" Malfurion asked, "It is because you do not understand the forces you are playing with!"

"Wrong again, brother! Unlike you, I do understand. I AM one of these forces!"

"Illidan…" even for Malfurion it was hard finding anything that could convince his maddened sibling.

"Can't you understand that the dead should not have a master?!" Tyrande came to the aid of her mate, raising the right question.

"No, Tyrande," in his present state, Illidan was untouched even by her words, "nowadays, a Lich King is a necessity, and I voluntarily take this role."

"Then I am afraid we simply cannot let you play it to the end," replied the druid.

"Again I meet your distrust, Malfurion, the distrust of both of you," now his voice finally changed to a more hissing, angered one, "Did not Kael'Thas tell you about my suffering?! Have you no pity?!"

"He did, and we both pity you."

"Then allow me to share a secret with you two," the half-demon then said, "most of the Scourge is mindless, and there always must be a Lich King to bind their will. Otherwise, this uncontrollable swarm will go on a rampage across the whole world, and you have no idea what will happen then! I am still capable of keeping them at under control, but this may change as my illness progresses. I am not just doing it to satisfy my lust for power; it will benefit Azeroth as well."

"I am sorry, brother, but your actions, both past and recent, show how uncontrollable you are, so the possibility of the undead having no leader at all is better than you achieving your full newfound powers," it was a tough choice, but neither of the two option had bright spots.

"I am sorry as well, Malfurion and Tyrande, but I do not have a choice as well," he said quite sadly, however, his voice immediately regained its vile marks, "and you are too late to stop me!"

Though Illidan was not expecting his appearance, he was, nevertheless, ready for the unexpected. His forces had secured the skies over Durotar, and with the moments he won in the conversation and Frostmourne's presence giving him extra strength…

A gargoyle emerged from below the edge of the hold's rooftop, nobody aware what path it had made. It did not attack; simply bolted and collided with the Hyppogriph of the druid, sending both aside. Malfurion managed to hold in his seat range as the two creatures sank their talons into each other, and went down, pulled by the weight of the northern creature and the will of its lord. Both disappeared out of the sight of the Illidari, yet the sound of wings flapping hinted that the fight continued lower.

"Furion!" should Tyrande.

Kel'Thuzad felt the time to make his contribution. With a gesture of the sorcerer's hands, a frost explosion erupted before the second Hyppogriph, bringing the beast down too. This one, however, was closer and its fall came on the roof. The rider was more agile as well, jumping out of her seat in the right moment. Yet that stunt was not good enough, for she lost her balance and simply had to roll on the stone surface. Loosing no moment, she got up on one knee before getting a chain wrapped around her neck. The metallic noose squeezed her. Tyrande saw everything before her eyes gain greenish tones, yet the hold was "soft" enough to let her taste the basic amount of air needed for survival.

"This is how death's embrace feels like," sounded the cold voice of the Lich behind her back.

—————

**Author's Note**: Hi, everyone!

Before Chapter 25 comes out, perhaps you ought to look again at the scene centered on Thrall in Chapter 21 (the second part). It addresses a theme that is not actually heavily noticeable and rarely raised, but, however, does play its role in the background.


	25. Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Kel'Thuzad watched the Priestess suffer from suffocation. It amused him; it served as another demonstration of his power over life and death. He only had to tighten the noose of chains around her neck, and the druid's mate would be no more. He watched as the Night Elf, breathing heavily, brought a trembling hand to the metal that was slowly sinking in her skin.

"Do not struggle, woman, you are just doing yourself worse," the Lich said.

Then somebody's presence manifested in the back of his mind. A presence accompanied by an aura of power, however weakened. That of the Lich King himself, for there was no other.

_Kel'Thuzad, don't. She must not be hurt._

The voice in his head was confident and demanding.

_Yes, Lord Illidan_. He obeyed.

After his captive felt the chain around her neck loosened and then completely lifted. Tyrande hungrily made a deep breath, brushing her scraped neck with her hand. Her breathing continued to be heavy just as the shades of green continued to color her sight.

At least for the next several minutes she would not be a nuisance for the Lich and the half-demon.

"Naga!" he turned to Illidan's serpentine spellcasters, "Put some spell or charm on this one!" he showed his hand at the kneeling captive.

One of the Siren separated from her colleague and crawled into the direction of the pair.

The Lich floated back, noticing what he was looking for—the bow of the Priestess. He picked it up with his bony hand, quietly whispered an incantation, and the weapon was hidden under a layer of ice. She would not be needing any weapons here. Kel'Thuzad dropped the now useless bow.

He turned back; the Siren was chanting something to the Priestess, who now motionlessly stood on one knee, her both hands on it. Kel'Thuzad wondered whether this was a longer type of sleep-inducing spell, similar to those used by Dreadlords. But, all in all, its nature did not matter as long as it kept the female Elf out of the equation.

He turned to his master. Nothing significantly change in his case, only the blue aura that surrounded had become brighter. The Lord of Outland and the Lich King was still completely consumed by his task.

_Check up on my brother, Kel'Thuzad_, Illidan dedicated another telepathic message to him.

_It will be done_, he replied.

He was about to travel to the edge behind which the druid had disappeared along with his mount and the attacking gargoyle. However, the completion of his task came sooner than expected. A circular blue-white glow spread on the stone roof; a horned figure manifested in the middle of it. The work of magic this was, very familiar magic.

"This is not druidic magic!" proclaimed Kel'Thuzad, "This is Dalarani magic!"

Illidan had felt the changes in the energies radiated by spells.

The Archdruid found his lover with his gaze and after turned to his opponents. None knew what was on his mind.

"Indeed it is. Did you think that I would leave my allies behind?" he said.

A new participant appeared on the roof, not a living being but an elemental, its whole body—if it could be called that, consisting of running water.

Kel'Thuzad, a former mage himself, understood perfectly well what was happening. The Mages of Dalaran had often summoned these extradimensional beings to aid them in their battles. A battle companion of its conjurer, attack it did—its target the aura-embraced Lord of Outland. It seemed that a stream of water escaped it to strike down the half-demon.

Barely able to hold the situation under control, Illidan cast a spell, and another aura, yellow-green this time, formed over the previous one; the water turned into steam as it met it. Immediately the Naga aided their Master, and the Water Elemental was itself now challenged by the serpentine pair.

The Lich flew forward and threw a frost bolt at the Archdruid; he received the same in reply.

Illidan transferred a small portion of his concentration on the one who had conjured up the elemental. He felt the presence—the presence of an arcane magic user, a female human— on Grommash Hold's tower to the left. How had he missed her? Had she just materialized there or had she been there for a while, invisible? How foolish was not to notice her!

By the magiks of the Siren the Elemental was destroyed, the now unliving liquid splashing on the stone. But this success was hollow for the Naga; a blue-white glow opened beneath them, the same that had transported Malfurion to his present location. Seconds later the serpentine pair was relocated beyond the edge of Grommash hold in mid-air. Yet the Naga were creatures of the sea, not of the air, and they plunged to their demise below.

"Witch," Illidan whispered in anger.

He knew how to deal with her—he only hoped it would work in this case and from this distance. He pulled his hand forward, though it almost cost him all the work he had done. A beam, almost like lightning, escaped his palm and struck the rival mage when she was preparing to cast another spell. The woman fell to her knees; the half-demon's spell though painful was not destructive—it merely burned out the victim's mana and transferred parts of it to him, making the target unable to use magic for short periods of time.

Illidan grinned viciously; he did not underestimate his abilities.

Further from Illidan's location another pair of spellcasters, like two enraged bulls, were locked in a fierce battle. Avoiding a hit from another bolt, its number uncounted, Kel'Thuzad dashed forward, a clot of his cold magic gathering in his hand; the Stormrage twin made a move in his opponent's direction. Their opened palms almost united as the two types of bolts collided in a flash of blue and yellow.

Immediately, the Lich retreated while the Archdruid held his ground. However, that was the skeletal sorcerer's tactic. The Archdruid was about to cast another bolt at his foe, even pulled his hand forward when it was struck by Kel'Thuzad's chain. Sharp pain quickly ran through his hand; his eyes watered. Surely it was broken. He stepped back, clutching it in his other arm. The Lich did not lose time; his next frost bolt came at the Night Elf's feet and the druid ended up lying on the rooftop as Arthas did. In contrast to the Prince, Malfurion managed to sit up.

The Lich now towered over him, proud of his triumph which had been a result of both skill and trickery.

"Nothing has changed since our showdown in Northrend. Once again you lose, Archdruid," the Lich said, "There are no roots or trees around here for you to animate."

He conjured up another frost bolt in his palm, a sign that any unexpected act of the druid would be countered.

"Your arrogance amuses me, Kel'Thuzad," Malfurion said.

"I wonder what will happen to you after all of this is over?" the Lich asked him with a bit of amusement.

"Unfortunately, I am incapable of answering your question, Kel'Thuzad," Malfurion said in a disinterested tone, "But I know a simple truth: the Damned, no matter the nature of their damnation, always are and will once again be cast to the same deep from which they had emerged."

"Your philosophy has no meaning to me," the Lich said.

Still the Archdruid continued to hope.

At the same time similar thoughts cried in the head of the one who had been so easily forgotten when this recent struggle began. Arthas, just as the druid, was not in fighting condition—moreover, he was in a worse one. He had lost much blood, yet contrary to the Lich's speculation had not completely lost his senses. He had heard, partially seen, everything that had taken place there between the Illidari and their enemies, and in those moments his sympathies were with the few who stood against the one who was a Demon Hunter, the Lord of Outland, and the Lich King.

"A mere minute separates Illidan Stormrage from achieving his destiny!" the former Prince heard the half-demon sing this ode to himself in madness.

Perhaps his life was at its end and he would never again see the sun set but even in his dying minutes he would bring misfortunes upon the heads of his enemies.

His trembling hand rose slightly. He chanted and addressed the Holy Light, hoping to use its powers to strike the main foe. He gained the aid of the Light in his dream against the dream versions of the Lich and the Dark Ranger. And it seemed the powers of the Light had not completely abandoned him…

Illidan shouted or hissed—it was hard to tell, so specifically sounded his voice—embraced by the golden aura of the Light that healed the blessed and pained the damned. Illidan Stormrage considered himself a union of three—the Night Elf, the half-demon, and the Lich King—and it was the latter part that the Light's power struck the most. He felt himself burn. In his zeal the Lord of Outland continued to grip the blade's hilt, however, he lost control over the situation, and the large amount of magic he had carefully guided in an attempt to extract the power from the blade was now loose.

The cry attracted attention of the Lich and the Druid. Kel'Thuzad now stared at the scene in amazement, lacking any ideas of further action. Malfurion, on the other, gained from the confusion of his opponent. He knew what he needed to try; he hoped it was worth it.

_Forgive me, brother_. He thought and used the available moments to concentrate.

The power of the druid's source, nature, manifested itself in a chain of unnatural green lightning that struck the runeblade. Under the united pressure of the might of the Holy Light, nature, and the powers Illidan now failed to control, Frostmourne shattered into hundreds of pieces. Only the hilt now remained in the hand of the half-demon.

"No!" Illidan shouted in rage and frustration that victory abandoned him a moment before his hour of triumph.

However, that was not the end. The released and now uncontrollable power of the Lich King that had been locked in the blade now joined the powers that had destroyed Frostmourne.

Great power had always been Illidan's vulnerability, and it was great power that turned against him. The fusion of energies of different sources churned around him, embraced him, went through him like needles through fabric; an indescribable sight.

"Great power does not tolerate failures," Illidan whispered, evaluating the phenomenon for himself. Nobody could now what the Lord of Outland thought about in these moments.

The events that took place before their eyes of the two of the mightiest spellcasters in the world radiated an atmosphere of supreme dominion of the art of magic both of them had tried to master.

"Lord Illidan!" sounded the voice of Kel'Thuzad as he watched the destiny of the second Lich King unfold before him.

Though the Lich remained outside the area of the magical storm, its grand wrath, nevertheless, had effect on him. He was not present at Icecrown when the reign of the previous Lich King ended and only an unlikely turned of events saved him and his work. Now Kel'Thuzad had to witness the realities, in the creation of which he had contributed, possibly fall apart in front of him. For the first time in years the dark sorcerer felt the solid fist of fear grip him. He feared for his own power, his own status as he felt the whole world around him abate. He flew to his master, and the Archdruid wondered whether the Lich actually knew what he was doing or simply, in the most pathetic way, became a vassal of his new-found panic. Yet the one who was first among the necromancers was nothing before the powers at play here.

The Lord of Outland, now embraced by not just blue and golden but by auras of different kind, suddenly reached forward, probably drowning in uncertainty himself, and grabbed the Scourge commander by the elbow. This happened only several moments before both of them as well as the tempest of wild energies that swirled around the two disappeared in a colorful flash.

No agonizing cries sounded, and neither of them proclaimed final, soul-gripping words fit for similar occasion. When the flash ceased, no longer the duo was there.

Arthas' head leaned back; but just before the dark mist fell on him the Prince thought his mind played a trick on him, for he thought he saw a ghostly figure, so close and familiar, kneel before him…

Malfurion continued to watch with wide eyes the space where two of the most power-obsessed souls on Azeroth had stood. It was over, though he doubted that was the end of the Demon Hunter and the Lich.

The sky above became clear again.


	26. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

_Theramore Isle, one year later_…

Light poured through the arced windows, illuminating the hall and brightening even the cold marble of the floor.

Silence reigned within the hall, though people, their number in dozens, had gathered for this occasion. Almost all of them sat—most on benches—and the exception applied to only one…

Arthas Menethil stood in the sunlight. This time he was clad not in skeletal armor, but the aristocratic blue-yellow garments of Lordaeron, the crest of the defunct kingdom on his cloak. He looked at the window. For a brief moment he felt warmth pleasantly run across his face.

He then turned to those three who would decide his fate. Three figures were seated behind the long desk. By one side sat a Dwarf, the end of his long beard unseen behind the wooden furnishing. By the other side sat a Gnome, small even compared to the representative of the other race. Arthas could have sworn he had encountered both of them before, yet their names and status did not float in his head at the moment. Yet the third one, his place in the center, was familiar to him: Bolvar Fordragon, a Paladin and a trusted advisor to King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind. Indeed, one could not find a better candidate to represent the Human kingdoms. All the races of the Alliance were now represented.

"Lord Arthas," it was the Bolvar's that interrupted the silence, "before the judges leave to make the final decision, you are given the chance to give a statement."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Arthas said, correcting the blue cloak on his shoulders.

The former Prince of Lordaeron himself had advocated that this trial was to be set up. There was no other way to act; he could not continue his life as an exile whether in Orgrimmar or anywhere else anymore. His decision, just like his reappearance, had raised a lot of uncertainty on the highest levels of Alliance authority, and it was impossible to imagine what thought were predominant in the masses.

Arthas turned to those accommodated on the long bench, those who had witnessed the tribunal from the first day.

"Not much is left to say, for everything has already been presented," he started, "I will not ask forgiveness. I will not beg the court to spare my life. I will accept the decision of the judges no matter what the verdict would state. I have presented my case before you, and it is up to the all of you, both the judges and those who are not, to decide who Arthas Menethil really is," he turned his face back to the judges, "and if the verdict you proclaim is Death…"

"…then Death is what I am worthy of," he looked again at the others, yet his words were for all, "and this decision I will not challenge."

He made several steps in the direction of the window, a symbolic source of light. Through it he gazed at the clear sky, perhaps even expecting to see familiar figures there.

He had felt something constantly twitch inside his soul the whole time he spoke and it still continued; a feeling of sadness.

"Ten thousand years ago in a different land, a trial also took place," his voice trembled slightly, "however, it solved no problems and brought no improvements to any of the sides. I pray to the Light that this time everything will turn out differently," he looked at the people again, "Life shows that a lot of things cannot be gained with good words or gold, but by blood! If this is the remedy to cure old wounds and the key to open the gates into a better future, then I shall willingly ascend the altar and let my blood be spilled to manifest it like the blood of our ancestors was in the days of distant past!"

He made a deep breath.

"With this I end my speech," he nodded sadly and hid his hands under his cloak, "and let humanity decide whether my words wee a prayer or my last farewell."

He became silent.

"The court will now leave the room to make a final decision," said the Gnome.

As stated by the protocol, the judges ceremonially and silently stood up and disappeared in the doorway that led into the adjoining room. The guard closed the door.

Arthas remained in his place.

This process had been a heated one from the beginning when the news of his wish first came to Stormwind and the Alliance discovered the return of the Prince Arthas that was before the Plague. A lot wanted his head; he was not surprised by it. Yet interestingly, after all he had done there still were people to speak for him. Through Jaina Arthas had found out that a group of seventeen Alliance nobles had signed a letter addressed to the judges and the leading figures of the Alliance giving recommendations and listing the reasons to spare him. Arthas did not know the exact contents were, but surprisingly the first signature, which belonged to the main author, belonged to another advisor of the King, Lady Katrana Prestor, a relative of the missing Daval Prestor. He did not know what the reasoning was for the mysterious noblewoman had decided to defend the Prince even though it brought confusion to the Alliance. This just showed that a living Prince Arthas was more valuable than a dead one for some circles in the elite echelons of the Alliance even though it served the interests only of some parties. A corpse could only be reanimated, while his life cleared new horizons in political games in which his involvement was not necessary at all.

He was afraid this whole trial was just a spectacle for the crowd, and his fate was decided, the verdict unknown, not by the judges but by other people. How deeply had corruption infested the Alliance!

The trio eventually returned to finish their job.

"Lord Arthas Menethil," Bolvar, as the Chief Judge, was to proclaim the verdict.

The Paladin was the only judge to stand.

"Yes, Your Honor," Arthas responded.

"There is no denial that you have on your hands the blood of King Terenas Menethil, Uther the Lightbringer, Archmage Antonidas, and many others. This grim fact cannot be softened by your past achievements before the Alliance and your regret."

A pause followed.

"However," Lord Bolvar then continued, "After a long time spent on the analysis of the existing evidence, the court has come to a conclusion that you were not fully in control of your actions when these atrocities happened, having been under the sway of the cursed runeblade Frostmourne. Hence, we have found your case different from those of the villain Baron Rivendare and the madman Kel'Thuzad. Having taken everything in account, the court will now announce the verdict…"

Arthas felt everything inside him get squeezed by fatalistic suspense.

"Lord Arthas, it is impossible to declare you not guilty. Yet the circumstances, mentioned by the court, have been taken into account. History will probably remember this decision of the judges as the most unique and controversial since the times when our distant ancestors founded the nation of Arathor. Yet the high principles of the Alliance guide us all."

The next few moments stretched like an eternity.

"Arthas Menethil, the court grants you pardon."

There was no reaction from the people behind his back. Applauses were not expected, but neither did angry shouts erupt. Nobody could know what thoughts at these moments dwelled within the minds of the people present, and what would be the reaction of the masses in Stormwind or Theramore, Ironforge or Gnomeregan.

Arthas knew that though the long shadows behind the judges had spared him for different reasons, destiny would likely not grant him the opportunity to win the hearts of the people a second time…

—

It was night when Arthas came to the balcony of Jaina's tower on Theramore. Unlike, the dry Barrens, the climate on the island was much more hospitable. Here the merciless heat of the day and the incredible cold nights typical to the barren land was replaced by tropical warmth when the sun was up and the cooling breeze at nightfall.

An excellent view was open to him. Theramore, a place he had been unofficially confined to, exiled to, by the Alliance. He could see bellow the darkened houses in the architectural style of the Eastern kingdoms mixed with local exotic trees; a piece of Lordaeron in a foreign land. What would the future hold for it?

The future, however, hurled him to the past. He was again on the rooftop of Grommash Hold, in the center of the burning capital of the Horde. He again heard the exchange in words between him and the two other Night Elves and witnessed the fall of the second Lich King, the Lord of Outland, Illidan Stormrage.

Nobody on Azeroth had heard of Illidan or Kel'Thuzad since the day the two were carried away to a mysterious fate. The Naga along with Lady Vashj had retreated back to the ocean depts.

After Illidan's disappearance Thrall and his forces arrived in the city to liberate the Hold from the fortified Illidari. Now the Horde enjoyed a period of relative peace, gained after two successive campaigns, the colonization of their new lands continued.

Arthas himself would have probably not been alive to see the sun set if it had not been for the twin of the half-demon, Malfurion Stormrage. It was the druid who used the powers of nature to save the life of the human and heal his wounds before leaving the location with him and the women on the wounded but still living Hyppogriph. The Night Elves had returned to Ashenvale and their secluded ways, but perhaps one day they would become more open to the world.

Arthas had even gotten news about the Blood Elves. They were in the process of rebuilding their kingdom. Silvermoon had already risen from the ruins, and Kael'Thas had promised his people that the Sunwell would be restored as well.

Yet there were few reasons for optimism.

Illidan had been right—the Scourge needed a strong leader, and with his disappearance the dark hold on it was weakened. Though Illidan's contingent in the Barrens had been eradicated in and shortly after the battle for Orgrimmar, there had been clashes with a faction of now mindless undead in the Eastern Kingdoms. There was no news about the ones left on Northrend. Arthas actually wondered what kept that numerous mass there: the plain inability to leave the frozen continent or the echoes of Illidan's will.

More doubt was in him. Thrall had shared his suspicion with the Prince and the Night Elves, his theory that it was not Medivh that had appeared before them and had, in a way, triggered Illidan's downfall, but somebody in his guise, so different his methods and scope of participation were. Arthas hoped the Warchief was wrong this time, and the Prophet had really reemerged from the shadows of the past for this purpose…however Illidan had made powerful enemies.

Was the Burning Legion trying to get revenge on him for his latest betrayal in this desperate way? The thought of the Dark Lord Kil'jaeden himself manipulating them via false visions almost made him tremble.

Illidan had been reckless with magic, so perhaps the Blue Dragons, their numbers few, had attempted to get rid off the wild card with the hands of others? Mages noticed recently the changes in the behavior of the flight of Malygos from neutral to a more hostile one.

Was it just the first step in a bigger plan of this unknown force? There were many possible answers.

Illidan's defeat changed little—perhaps it even changed nothing. The future still was in the mists of uncertainty…just as three years before.

"Arthas?" he heard a soft voice behind him.

He turned around to see the fragile figure of Jaina Proudmoore crossing the darkened hallway. She joined him on the balcony.

"Why aren't you in bed? Is something wrong?" she asked.

Arthas gazed into those beautiful blue eyes, deep as the seas, noticing sparkles of concern in them.

"No, everything is fine. I just wanted to get some air," he replied, a smile spread across his face. Pleasant in view, yet fake in its nature.

At the same time he thanked the Light that in this changed and hostile world there was one person who would always be there for him because of her love, not hidden motives.

Jaina nodded with her own light smile appearing.

He looked at the moon that hung silently over the mortal plane. He did not sigh, for he was afraid it would hint on his numerous concerns and trouble the one true love of his life.

Though the Prince of the defunct kingdom was pardoned reluctantly by the judges and those who stood behind their decision, he, nevertheless, had not avoided punishment. The shadows of his past were always with him, the true Inquisition and the coldest of Executioners; they carried out their work with all their merciless eagerness.

Later that night he went to bed, but they again found him in his sleep—they had often done. In his dreams he once again walked the streets of burning Stratholme. He once again stood before a pedestal above which a sword with fear-striking decorations lifelessly hung in its maliciousness. He once again witnessed the painfully familiar scene with the bloodied crown falling on the marble floor of the royal palace…

Time would later prove that one simple truth Arthas Menethil, the last Prince of Lordaeron, kept until his final days, and to him, a past idealist, that truth was like a cup of poison handed by a treacherous friend.

The sagas of the old always ended with the monster overcome and a lifetime of happiness. That, however, was not his tale.

—

**Author's Note**: Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen!


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